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LIBRA. 


UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFOr.NIA 


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SAN  6IEGO    '^ 


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October  1,  1849.       "j^O 

A  LIST  or  BOOKS         a;2.J 

RECENTLY    PUBLISHED    BY 

TICKNOR,   REED  AND  FIELDS.    £- '^'■ 

—  V.I 

IiOXTGrZlIiZiO'W'S  FOESXS. 


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POEMS, 


BY 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 
VOL.    L 


A    NEAV    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS. 


M  DCCC  L. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

H.    W.    LONGPELLOW, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  tlie  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND    PRINTED    BV 
METCALF     AND     COMPANY, 
PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS   OF  VOL.  I. 


VOICES   OF  THE   NIGHT. 

PAGE 

Prelude ix 

VOICES   OF    THE    NIGHT. 

Hymn  to  the  Night 3 

A  Psalm  of  Life 5 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers        ....  8 

The  Light  of  Stars 11 

Footsteps  of  Angels 14 

Flowers 17 

The  Beleaguered  City 22 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year           .         .  26 

EARLIER    POEBIS. 

An  April  Day 33 

Autumn .         .36 

Woods  in  Winter 39 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem     . 

42 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills 

.       45 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry       ..... 

48 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink     .... 

.       52 

TRANSLATIONS. 

CoPLAS  de  Manrique 

59 

The  Good  Shepherd 

.       89 

To-MORROW 

91 

The  Native  Land 

.       93 

The  Image  of  God 

95 

The  Brook 

.       97 

The  Celestial  Pilot 

99 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise  .... 

.     102 

Beatrice 

105 

Spring          . 

.     109 

The  Child  Asleep 

111 

The  Grave 

.     113 

King  Christian 

IIG 

The  Happiest  Land 

.     119 

The  Wave         .         .         .     •  . 

122 

The  Dead 

.     123 

The  Bird  and  the  Ship 

125 

contents.  v 

Whither? 128 

Beware! 130 

Song  of  the  Bell 132 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea    .....  134 

The  Black  Knight 137 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land          .         .         .         .  141 

L'Envoi 143 

BALLADS   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Preface 147 

BALLADS. 

The  Skeleton  in  Armour 169 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus    ....  182 

The  Luck  of  Edenhall 188 

The  Elected  Knight 193 

THE    CHILDREN    OF    THE    LORD'S    SUPPER  199 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Village  Blacksmith     .....  239 

Endymion 243 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair      .....  246 

It  is  not  always  May 249 


vi  contents. 

The  Rainy  Day 251 

God's-Acre 253 

To  THE  River  Charles 255 

Blind  Bartimeus 258 

The  Goblet  of  Life 260 

Maidenhood 265 

Excelsior 269 

POEMS    ON    SLAVERY. 

To  William  E.  Channing 275 

The  Slave's  Dream 277 

The  Good  Part 281 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp      .         .         .  284 

The  Slave  singing  at  Midnight  ....  287 

The  Witnesses 289 

The  Quadroon  Girl 292 

The  Warning 296 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

The  Spanish  Student 301 

Notes 469 


VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT, 


1840. 


PRELUDE. 


Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 

Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 

Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go  ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above. 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 


PRELUDE. 


Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound  ;  — 

A  slumberous  sound,  —  a  sound  that  brings 

The  feelings  of  a  dream,  — 
As  of  innumerable  w^ings, 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die. 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me. 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie. 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky. 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea  ; 


PRELUDE.  XI 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled  ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  Eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes. 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams. 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride. 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 

And  bishop's-caps  have  golden  rings, 

Musing  upon  many  things, 
I  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 


Xll  PRELUDE. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild  ; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy  ! 
They  were  ray  playmates  when  a  child. 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy  ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more  !  " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  ; 

O,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar  ; 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood. 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer  ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 


PRELUDE.  Xlll 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again  ; 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

''  '*  Visions  of  childhood  !    Stay,  O  stay  ! 
Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  !  '/  /i 
And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 
"  It  cannot  be  !     They  pass  away  ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay  ; 
Thou  art  no  more  a  child  ! 


XIV  PRELUDE. 

"The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 
Watered  by  living  springs  ; 
The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 
Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise, 
Its  clouds  are  angels'  wings. 

"Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow. 
Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea. 
Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 
Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 


o 


"  There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 
Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 
A  mighty  river  roars  between. 
And  whosoever  looks  therein, 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 
Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 


PRELUDE.  XV 

"Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour  ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast  ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast  ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  '  It  is  past ! 

We  can  return  no  more  ! ' 

"Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write  ! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 
All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGTIT 


TloTvitt,  noTvia  vv^, 

VJivoSoTfiga  ibiv  iioXvnoiav  ^QOTwr, 

'l{(jt6ij&tv  i'di'  ^oXs  jUcIAe  yMTunjSQog 

'j]yu^f/.tv6riop  snl  Sofiov ' 

vno  yuQ  ah/iav,  vno  t£  avfx(fOQuq 

8i oixoixii>  ',  o}yJ>nf:d a. 


EVRIPIDES. 


3 


HY.MN   TO  THE   NIGHT. 

Aanaolrj,  iQiXXiaiog. 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 


4  VOICES  OF   THE  NIGHT. 

1  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

IMy  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace!  Peace!  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight. 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  TOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !  " 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real  !     Life  is  earnest  ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal  ; 
"Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 


VOICES   OP   THE  NIGHT, 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave. 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant  ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present  ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 


A   PSALM  OF   LIFE, 


Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing. 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


8 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 


There  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  hetween. 

"  Shah  I  have  nought  that  is  fair  ? "  sahh  he  ; 

"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 


THE  REAPER  AXD  THE  FLOWERS.       9 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers' with  tearful  eyes, 
He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

"Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  liglit. 

Transplanted  by  my  care. 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 


10  VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 
The  Reaper  came  that  day  ; 

'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


II 


THE   LIGHT   OF   STARS. 


The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven. 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 


12  VOICES   OF  THE   NIGHT. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 
The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 

0  no  !    from  that  blue  tent  above, 
A  hero's  armour  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

//  O  star  of  strength  !    I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ;  // 
Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Widiin  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 


THE  LIGHT   OF   STARS.  13 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still. 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm. 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart. 
Be  resolute  and  cahn. 

O  fear  not  in  a  world  like  tliis, 
And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long. 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


14 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS. 


When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight  ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall. 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall  ; 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS.  15 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife. 
By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore. 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly. 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given. 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 


16  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT, 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended. 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely. 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


FLOWERS. 


Si'AKE  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden. 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history. 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 
Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery. 

Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 
2 


18  VOICES   OF    THE  NIGHT. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth, —  these  golden  flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being. 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining. 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  v/ith  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 


FLOWERS.  19 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light  ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night  ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seeming  ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers, 
Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  tliey  glowing. 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing. 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn  ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field. 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing. 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 


20  VOICES   OF  THE   NIGHT. 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys. 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink  ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone  ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant. 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbhng  towers. 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers  ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons. 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soid-like  wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 


FLOWERS.  21 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand  ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


23 


THE   BELEAGUERED  CITY. 


I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead. 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY.  23 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air. 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavihons  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star. 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 


24  VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  hght, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound. 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice,  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 


THE   BELEAGUERED   CITY.  25 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell. 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


26 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 


Yes,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  ! 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard. 
Sorely,  —  sorely  ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling. 

Solemnly  and  slow  ; 
Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling. 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 


M 


IDNIGHT  MASS   FOR  THE  DYING   YEAR.      27 


Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 

The  winds,  hke  anthems,  roll ; 
They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 

Singing  ;  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  —  pray  !  " 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ;  — 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather. 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  —  a  king  ! 


28  VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 
Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 

His  joy  !  his  last !  O,  the  old  man  gray, 
Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith,  — 
To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 

Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, - 
"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  !  " 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead  ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies. 
No  mist  or  stain  ! 


MIDNIGHT  MASS   FOR  THE  DYING   YEAR.      29 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost !  " 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind  ! 

Howl  !  howl  !  and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 
O  Soul  !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 


30  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast. 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast. 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 
Christe,  eleyson  ! 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


[These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my 
college  life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen. 
Some  have  found  their  way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be 
successful.  Others  lead  a  vagabond  and  precarious  exist- 
ence in  the  corners  of  newspapers  ;  or  have  changed  their 
names  and  run  away  to  seek  their  fortunes  beyond  the 
sea.  I  say,  with  the  Bishop  of  Avranches,  on  a  similar 
occasion ;  "  I  cannot  be  displeased  to  see  these  children 
of  mine,  which  I  have  neglected,  and  almost  exposed, 
brought  from  their  wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and 
safely  lodged,  in  order  to  go  forth  into  the  world  together 
in  a  more  decorous  garb."] 


33 


AN  APRIL  DAY, 


When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms. 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-on  of  storms. 


34  EARLIER  POEMS. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives  ; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly-warbled  song 
Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves  along 

The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And,  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn. 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 


AN   APKIL  DAY.  35 

Inverted  in  the  tide, 
Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April !  —  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


36     -^ 


AUTUMN. 


With  what  a  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year  ! 
The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  out ; 
And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 


AUTUMN.  37 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird. 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved. 
Where  autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a-weary.      Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.      The  purple  finch. 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle. 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings. 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail. 


3S  EARLIER   POEMS. 

O  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teachings. 
He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that  Deadi 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  whhout  a  tear. 


WOODS   IN   WINTER. 


When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 
And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale. 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill. 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 


40  EARLIER  POEMS. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide. 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings. 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad. 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd  ; 

And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord. 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 


WOODS   IN  WINTER.  41 

Chill  airs    and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song  ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year,  — 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


42 


HYMN 

OF   THE   MORAVIAN   NUNS   OF   BETHLEHEiM, 

AT   THE    CONSECRATION    OF    PULASKl'S    liANKER. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  hght  on  the  cowled  head  ; 
And   the  censer  burning  swung, 
Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  blood-red  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS.      43 

And  the  nun's  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while. 
Sung  low  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave  ; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale. 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath. 
Guard  it !  —  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it !  —  God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trving  hour. 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 


44  EARLIER  POEMS. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     But,  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  !  —  By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him  !  — he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him  !  —  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  ! 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  —  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier. 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud  ! 


45 


SUNRISE   ON  THE   HILLS. 


I  STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me;  — bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid- way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And,  in  their  fading-glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown. 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance. 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 


46  EARLIER  POEMS. 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 
Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 
Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day. 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash,  — 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach. 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell. 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills. 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout. 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 


SUNRISE   ON   THE  HILLS.  47 

Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  tlie  dingle 
broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  !  —  No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


48 


THE   SPIRIT  OF   POETRY. 


There  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind  blows ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air. 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought. 
When  the  fast-ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf ; 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  POETRV.  49 

Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook. 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade  ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  end- 
less laughter. 
And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills. 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm. 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.  And  here,  amid 
The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods. 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth. 
As  to  the  sunshine    and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.  Hence  gifted  bards 
Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
4 


50  EARLIEll   POEMS, 

The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, — 
The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes,  — 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in, 
Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 
The  distant  lake,  fountains,  —  and  mighty  trees. 
In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth. 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature,  —  of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush  the  clouds 
When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 


THE  SPIRIT   OF  POETRY.  51 

• 

And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.     Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her 

cheek 
Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath. 
It  is  so  hke  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 
As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 
Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  —  and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  ca- 
dence. 


52 


BURIAL  OF  THE   MINNISINK. 


On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evenmg  fell  ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  dowTi 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 
Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white. 


BURIAL  OF  THE   MINNISINK.  53 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest  ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand. 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave. 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers. 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 


54  EARLIER   POEMS. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid  ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds. 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress. 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread. 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 


BURIAL   OF  THE   JMINNISINK.  55 

They  buried  the  dark  chief    they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart  !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  —  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


[Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  following  poem, 
flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  He 
followed  the  profession  of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of 
battle.  Mariana,  in  his  History  of  Spain,  makes  hon- 
orable mention  of  him,  as  being  present  at  the  siege  of 
Ucles  ;  and  speaks  of  him  as  "  a  youth  of  estimable  quali- 
ties, who  in  this  war  gave  brilliant  proofs  of  his  valor. 
He  died  young  ;  and  was  thus  cut  off  from  long  exercising 
his  great  virtues,  and  exhibiting  to  the  world  the  light 
of  his  genius,  which  was  already  known  to  fame."  He 
was  mortally  wounded  in  a  skirmish  near  Canavete,  in 
in  the  year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet, 
Conde  de  Paredes  and  Maestro  de  Santiago,  is  well  known 
in  Spanish  history  and  song.  He  died  in  147G;  according 
to  Mariana,  in  the  town  of  Ucles;  but,  according  to  the 
poem  of  his  son,  in  Ocaiia.  It  was  his  death  that  called 
forth  the  poem  upon  which  rests  the  literary  reputation 
of  the  younger  Manrique.  In  the  language  of  his  histo- 
rian, "  Don  Jorge  Manrique,  in  an  elegant  Ode,  full  of 
poetic  beauties,  rich  embellishments  of  genius,  and  high 
moral  reflections,  mourned  the  death  of  his  father  as  with 
a  funeral  hymn."  This  praise  is  not  exaggerated.  The 
poem  is  a  model  in  its  kind.  Its  conception  is  solemn 
and  beautiful ;  and,  in  accordance  with  it,  the  style  moves 
on  —  calm,  dignified,  and  majestic] 


69 


COPLAS  DE   MANRIQUE. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

O  LET  tlie  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake  ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone. 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away. 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past,  —  the  past,- 
More  highly  prize. 


(30  TRANSJ,ATIONS. 

Onward  Its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done  ; 
And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again. 
That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay  ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a  tale  that  's  told. 
They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave  ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 


COPLAS   DE  MANRiaUK.  Gl 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rill. 

There  all  are  equal.      Side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 

Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few  ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves. 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise. 

The  Eternal  Truth,— the  Good  and  Wise,— 

To  Him  I  cry. 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 

But  the  world  comprehended  not 

His  deity. 


62  TRANSLATIONS. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above  ; 
So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way, 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place, 
In  life  we  run  the  onward  race. 
And  reach  the  goal  ; 
When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering 

To  its  high  state.  [thought 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky. 

Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 


COPLAS  DE   MANRiaUE.  63 

Yes,  —  the  glad  messenger  of  love, 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 
The  Saviour  came  ; 
Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears, 
He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A  death  of  shame. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth. 
The  shapes  we  chase. 
Amid  a  world  of  treachery  ! 
They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye. 
And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us,  — chances  strange, 

Disastrous  accidents,  and  change. 

That  come  to  all ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state. 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  oi  fate  ; 

The  strongest  fall. 


6-4  TRANSLATIOMS. 

Tell  me,  —  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 
The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 
Ah,  where  are  they  ? 

The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 
The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life's  first  stage  ; 
These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight. 
When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name. 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 
In  long  array  ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 


COPLAS  DE   MANRIQUE.  65 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a  stain. 
Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride. 
With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide. 
How  soon  depart  ! 
Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 
The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they, 
Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  Fortune's  hands  are  found  ; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 
Still  hurries  on. 


QQ  TRANSLATIONS. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 

Reclaimed  Its  prey, 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely  ; 
Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 
And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 

Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust,  — 

They  fade  and  die  ; 

But,  In  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 

They  seal  the  Immortal  spirit's  doom 

Eternally  ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  hfe's  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all, 
But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  In  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall  ? 


COPLAS  DE  MANRiaUE.  67 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay,  —  but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein  ; 
And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
AYe  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 
But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart. 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light. 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace,  — 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power  .' 
What  ardor  show. 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within, 
In  weeds  of  woe  ! 


68  TRANSLATIONS. 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 

Famous  in  history  and  in  song 

Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate. 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 

Their  race  subhme. 

Who  is  the  champion  ?  who  the  strong  ? 

Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng  ? 

On  these  shall  fall 

As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 

Beside  his  stall. 

I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name. 

Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 

Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 

Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read. 

Their  histories. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRiaUE.  69 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago, 
Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 
Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan  ?     Where 

Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 

Of  Aragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye. 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply. 
And  nodding  plume,  — 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 


70  TRANSLATIONS. 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 
And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  thai  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love's  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold. 

The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride  ; 
O,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed. 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside ! 


COPLAS  DE  MANRiaUE.  71 

But  O  !  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world, which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifts, —  the  stately  walls, 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 

All  filled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 

Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold  ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight. 
In  rich  array,  — 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ?    Alas  ! 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 


72  TRANSLATIONS. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 
Unskilled  to  reign  ; 
What  a  gay,  brilhant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry- 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal  ;  and  the  breath. 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years ; 

Judgment  of  God  !  that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 
Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable, — the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all. 

Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride,  — 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 
Ignoble  fall  ! 


COPLAS  DE  MANRiaUE.  73 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 
His  hamlets  green,  and  cities  fair, 
His  mighty  power,  — 
What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame. 
Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high. 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 
Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest. 
Their  underlings  ; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate. 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  ? 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height. 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 


TRANSLATIONS. 


So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 
And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  O  Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms. 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 
When  thou  dost  show, 
O  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face. 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh. 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high. 
And  flag  displayed  ; 
High  battlements  intrenched  around. 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  palisade, 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  75 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep,  — 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O  Death,  from  thee. 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live. 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  hfe  indeed  ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 

Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good. 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom. 


76  TRANSLATIONS. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair  ; 
INIidway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone. 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade, 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid. 
As  Virtue's  son,  — 
Roderic  Manrique,  —  he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 
Spain's  champion  ; 


COPLAS   DE   MANRiaUE.  77 

His  signal  deeds   and  prowess  high 

Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, — 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

"Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung  ? 

The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  friend  ;  —  how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief! 
To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a  chief ! 

"What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise  ; 
"What  grace  in  youtliful  gayeties  ; 
In  all  how  sage  ! 
Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave. 
He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 
A  lion's  rage. 


78  TRANSLATIONS. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio's  virtue  ;  his,  the  skill 

And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness,  —  his 

A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws  ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 

Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause  ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
Aurehus'  countenance  divine, 
Firm,  gentle,  still ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 
And  generous  will ; 


COPLAS  DE  MANRiaUE.  79 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command  ; 
The  faith  of  Constantino  ;  ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury. 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high. 

Nor  massive  plate  ; 

He  fought  the  Moors,  —  and,  in  their  fall. 

City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 

"Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground. 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A  common  grave  ; 

And  there  the  warrior's  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train. 
That  conquest  gave. 


go  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 
So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold. 
In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 
'T  was  his  to  share, 
Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions, than  before. 
His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced. 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 

On  history's  page  ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 

Each  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 


COPLAS   DE  MANRIQUE.  gj 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 
By  worth  adored. 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 
Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 

Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 

And  cruel  power ; 

But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 

Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 

By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served  ;  — 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story. 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shai-ed  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 


S2  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 

Had  been  cast  down  ; 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal. 

Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown  ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all ; 
Then,  on  Ocana's  castled  rock. 
Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 
With  sudden  call,  — 

Saying,  "Good  Cavaher,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 
Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  da}^ 
Put  on  its  armour  for  the  fray,  — 
The  closing  scene. 


COPLAS   DE   MANRIQUE.  83 

'•  Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strifej 
So  prodigal  of  health  and  Hfe, 
For  earthly  fame, 
Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again  ; 
Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 
They  call  thy  name. 

"  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 
Too  terrible  for  man,  —  nor  fear 
To  meet  the  foe  ; 
Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 
Its  Hfe  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 
On  earth  below. 

"  A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, — 
'T  is  but  a  name  ; 
And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 
That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 
To  want  and  shame. 


84  TRANSLATIONS. 

"  The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate  ; 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  —  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  —  shall  not  inherit 
A  joy  so  great. 

"  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell. 
Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 
His  prayers  and  tears  ; 
And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 
Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 
His  standard  rears. 

"  And  thou, brave  knight,  whose  hand  has  pouied 
The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O'er  all  the  land. 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length. 
The  guerdon  of  tliine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  85 

"Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 
Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 
Thou  dost  profess, 
Depart,  —  thy  hope  is  certainty,  — 
The  third  —  the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess." 

"  O  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay ; 
My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 
And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be,  — 
I  bow  to  the  divine  decree. 
To  God's  behest. 

"  My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 
No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 
Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 
The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 
"Were  vain,  when  't  is  God's  sovereign  will 
That  wc  shall  die. 


86  TRANSLATIOXS. 

"  O  thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

"  And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 
So  patiently  ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone. 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
O,  pardon  me  !  " 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed. 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind  ; 
Encircled  by  his  family. 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 


COPLAS   DE   MANRiaUE.  87 

His  soul  to  Him,  who  gave  It,  rose  ; 

God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior's  sun  has  set. 

Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 

Bright,  radiant,  blest.* 


*  This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a  groat  favorite  in  Sj)ain. 
No  less  than  four  poetic  Glosses,  or  running  commentaries, 
upon  it  have  been  published,  no  one  of  which,  however, 
possesses  great  poetic  merit.  That  of  the  Carthusian  monk, 
Rodrigo  de  Valdepenas,  is  the  best.  It  is  known  as  the 
Glosa  del  CarUijo.  There  is  also  a  prose  Commentary  by 
liuis  de  Aranda. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were  found  in  the 
author's  pocket,  after  his  death  on  the  field  of  battle. 

"  O  World  !  BO  few  the  years  we  live, 
Would  that  the  life  which  tliou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed  ! 
Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 
Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 


88  TRANSLATIONS. 

"  Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

"Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear. 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

"  Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 
And  weary  hearts ; 
Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 
But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs." 


89 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH   OF    LOPE   DE    VEGA. 

Shepherd  !  that  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  which  encompassed  me, — 
That  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree, 
On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long! 
Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains  ; 
For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt  be; 
I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 


90  TRANSLATIONS. 

Hear,  Shepherd!  —  thou  who  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 
O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 
O,  wait !  —  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying,  — 
Wait  for  me  !  —  Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  'rt  waiting  still 
for  me ! 


91 


TO-MORROW. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH    OF    LOPE    DE    VEGA. 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  —  that  thou  didst  wait. 
Wet  with  unheahhy  dews,  before  my  gate. 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 
O  strange  delusion  !  —  that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach,  and  O,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet. 


92  TRANSI.ATIONS. 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  ! " 
iVnd,  O  !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied. 
And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered  still, "  To- 
morrow." 


93 


THE   NATIVE   LAND. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF    FRANCISCO    DE   ALDANA. 

Clear  fount  of  light  !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  hfe's  feeble  breath  ; 
But,  sentineled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 


94  TRAiNSLATIONS. 

Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 
Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 
That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling 
be. 


95 


THE   IMAGE   OF  GOD. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH   OF    FRANCISCO    DE    ALDANA. 

O  Lord  !  that  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright ! 
Eternal   Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given, 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April,  fast  decays  ; 
Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days. 
For  ever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 


96  TRANSLATIONS. 

Celestial  King  !    O  let  thy  presence  pass 

Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 

Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him   who  seeks  it  there, 

And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 


97 


THE  BROOK. 


FROM    THE    SPANISH. 


Laugh  of  the  mountain  !  —  lyre  of  bird  and  tree  ! 

Pomp  of  the  meadow  !  mirror  of  the  morn  ! 

The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 

The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee  ! 

Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 

The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems. 

To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 

Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd's 

gaze. 

7 


98  TRANSLATIONS. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles  count! 
How,  without  mahce  murmuring,  glides  thy  current ! 
O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 
Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  lim- 
pid fount ! 


99 


O' 


THE   CELESTIAL   PILOT. 

FROM    DANTE.     PUEGATORIO,  II. 

And  now,  behold !  as  at  the  approach  of  morning 
Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mais  grows  fiery  red 
Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor, 

Appeared  to  me, —  may  I  again  behold  it  !  — 
A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming, 
Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 

And  when  therefrom  I  had  withdrawn  a  little 
Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  conductor, 
Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 


100  TRANSLATIONS. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 

I  knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath, 

Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 

My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 
While  the  first  brightness  into  wings  unfolded  ; 
But,  when  he  clearly  recognised  the  pilot. 

He  cried  aloud ;  " Quick, quick,  and  bow  the  knee! 
Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  up  thy  hands  ! 
Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers  ! 

"  See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 

Than  his  own  wings, between  so  distant  shores  ! 

"  See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight  to 

heaven. 
Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 
That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal  hair  ! " 


THE  CELESTIAL   PILOT.  101 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 
The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he  appeared, 
So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence, 

But  down  I  cast  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  nought  thereof. 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot ! 
Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face  ! 
And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within. 

"  In  exitu  Israel  out  of  Egypt !  " 
Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice, 
With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 

Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them. 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


102 


THE   TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

FROM  DANTE.   PURGATORIO,  XXVIH. 

Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  new-born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 
Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly. 
Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fragrance. 

A  gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead. 
No  heavier  blow,  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze. 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE.  103 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  that  side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Mountain ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their  rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering  swells, 
Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi, 
When  ^olus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 

Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 

Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had  entered. 


104  TKANSLATIONS. 

And  lo  !  my  farther  course  cut  off  a  river, 
Which,  towards  the  left  hand,  with  its  httle  waves, 
Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are,  / 

Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some  mix- 
ture, 
Compared  widi  that,  which  nothing  doth  conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


105 


BEATRICE. 

FROM  DANTE.      PURGATORIO,  XXX.,  XXXI. 

Even  as  the  Blessed,  in  the  new  covenant, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his  grave, 
Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh. 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  senis, 

Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying  ;  "  Benedidus  qui  vcnis,^^ 
And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about, 
'•'■  Manihus  o  date  lilia  phnis.''^ 


106  TRANSLATIONS. 

I  once  beheld,  at  the  approach  of  day, 
The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues, 
And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene  adorned, 

And  the  sun's  face  uprising,  overshadowed. 
So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors. 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while  ; 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers. 
Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown  up 
And  down  descended  inside  and  without. 

With  crown  of  olive  o'er  a  snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a  lady,  under  a  green  mantle, 
Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 


* 


BEATRICE.  107 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 

Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals. 

Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 

And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  itself, 
Whene'er  the  land,  that  loses  shadow,  breathes, 
Like  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  fire. 


Even  such  I  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  for  e\ 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres  ; 


But,  when  I  heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 
Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they  said, 
"  O  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  consume  him  ? " 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed. 
To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  anguish. 
Through  lips   and  eyes  came  gushing  from  my 
breast. 


108  TRANSLATIONS. 


Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 
Forced  such  a  feeble  "  Yes  !  "  out  of  my  mouth. 
To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight. 

Even  as  a  cross-bow  breaks,  when  't  is  discharged, 
Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the  bow, 
And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark  ; 

So  I  gave  way  under  this  heavy  burden, 

Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs. 

And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its  passage. 


109 


SPRING. 

FROM    THE    KREXCH    OF    CHARLES    D'ORI.EAXS. 
XV.   CENTURY. 

Gentle   Spring!  —  in  sunshine  clad, 
Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 

For  AVinter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou,  —  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 

He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train. 

The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ; 

And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear. 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


110  TRANSLATIONS. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so  old, 
Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 

And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 
We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 

And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 

Mope  hke  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 

But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear. 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 

Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud  ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  nought  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year. 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


Ill 


THE   CHILD  ASLEEP. 

FROM    THE   FRENCH. 

Sweet  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom,  that  thy  hps  have  pressed ! 

Sleep,  Httle  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to  me  ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ;  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  —  alone  for  thee  ! 


112  TRANSLATIONS. 

His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed ;  he  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of  harm. 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm? 

Awake,  my  boy  !  —  I  tremble  with  affright  ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought ! — Unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  ! 

Sweet  error!  —  he  but  slept, — I  breathe  again;  — 
Come, gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile! 

O  !  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain, 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 


113 


THE  GRAVE. 

FROM     THE    ANGLO-SAXOiV. 

For  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born, 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured. 
Nor  is  it  seen 

How  long  it  shall  be. 

8 


114  TRANSLATIONS. 

Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be  ; 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 
It  is  unhigh  and  low  ; 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low. 
The  side-ways  unhigh. 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh. 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 


THE  GEAVE.  H. 

There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwelL 
There  thou  shah  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 
And  leavest  thy  friends  ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend, 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  thee  ; 
Who  will  ever  open 
The  door  for  thee 
And  descend  after  thee. 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


116 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 
A    NATIONAL    SONG    OF    DENMARK. 

FROM    THE   DANISH    OF   JOHANNES    EVALD. 

King  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke  ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast; 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed  ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 
"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  fly,  he  who  can  ! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ? " 


KING  CHRISTIAN.  117 

Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar, 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 
He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  die  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

"  Now  is  the  hour  !  " 
"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  ! 
Of  Denmark's  Juel   who  can  defy 

The  power  ?  " 

North  Sea  !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent  ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went  ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail,  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
From  Denmark,  thunders  Tordenskiol ', 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly  ! 


118  TRANSLATIONS. 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite. 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave  !  * 


*  Nils  Juel  was  a  celebrated  Danish  Admiral,  and  Peder 
Wessel,  a  Vice-Admiral,  who  for  his  great  prowess  received 
the  popular  title  of  Tordenskiold,  or  Thunder-shield.  In 
childhood  he  was  a  tailor's  apprentice,  and  rose  to  his  high 
rank  before  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  when  he  was  killed  in 
a  duel. 


no 


THE   HAPPIEST  LAND. 
FRAGMEiST   OF  A   MODERN   BALLAD. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


There  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 
By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 
And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still. 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 


120  TRANSLATIONS. 

But,when  the  maid  departed, 
A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 

And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 
"  Long  Hve  the  Swabian  land  ! 

"  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 
Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 

Widi  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing,  — 
And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine  ; 

"  I  had  rather  hve  in  Lapland, 
Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  ! 

"  The  goodhest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 

As  fingers  on  this  hand  !  " 


THE   HAPn-EST   LAND.  121 

"■  Hold  your  tongues !  both  Svvabian  and  Saxon!" 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
"  If  diere  's  a  heaven  upon  diis  earUi, 

In  Bohemia  it  Hes. 

•'  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobler  blows  the  horn, 
And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 

Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 


And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 
Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand. 

Arid  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend, 
There  lies  the  happiest  land  !  " 


132 


THE   WAVE. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    TIEUGE. 

"  Whither,  thou  turbid  wave  ? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ? " 

"  I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dust ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  Sea's  immensity. 
To  wash  from  me  the  shme 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 


123 


THE  DEAD. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    KLOPSTOCK.. 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All,  all  the  holy  dead, 
Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near  ! 
How  they  so  softly  rest. 
All  in  their  silent  graves, 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking  ! 


124  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  tliey  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 
And  they  no  longer  feel, 
Here,  where  all  gladness  flies  ! 
And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o'ershadowed, 
Until  the  Angel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber  ! 


125 


THE   BIRD  AND  THE   SHIP. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    MULI.EIl. 

"  The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 
By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 

The  winds  behind  them  merrily 
Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

"  The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 
We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 

And  every  thing,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 
Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 


126  TRANSLATIONS. 

"  I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat !  Whither,  or  whence, 
With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ?"  — 

"  I  greet  thee,  httle  bird  !    To  the  wide  sea 
I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

"  Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

"  And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us  ? 

Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall. 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 

With  merry  companions  all."  — 

"  I  need  not  and  seek  not  company. 

Bonny  boat,  I  can  sing  all  alone  ; 
For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 

Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own. 


THE   BIRD   AND  THE  SHIP.  127 

"  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  tlie  mast, 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 
When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last, 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"  Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 

God  bless  them  every  one  ! 
I  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

"  Thus  do  I  sing  my  weary  song. 

Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 
And  this  same  song,  my  whole  hfe  long, 

Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know." 


128 


WHITHER  ? 

FROM    THE    GEKMAN    OF    JIULLER. 

I   HEARD  a  brooklet  gushing 
From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 

Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me. 
Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I  must  hasten  downward, 
All  with  my  pilgrim-stave  ; 


WHITHER?  129 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured. 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 

Whither,  O  brooklet,  say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
'T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 

Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 

The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear. 
9 


130 


BEWARE  ! 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


I  KNOW  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care  ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooHng  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care  ! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


BEWARE!  131 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care  ! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true. 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not. 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care  ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show. 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  foohng  thee  ! 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair. 

Take  care  ! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  ihee  to  wear, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  foohng  thee  ! 


132 


SONG  OF   THE   BELL. 

FROM    THE    GERiMAN. 

Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning. 

Fields  deserted  he  ! 

Bell !  thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening. 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully  ; 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 


SONG   Of  THE  CELL.  133 

Say  !  how  canst  thou  raourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull  ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

God  hath  wonders  manv, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking. 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it. 

Trembling  in  the  storm  ! 


181 


THE   CASTLE   BY  THE   SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

"  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 
That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 

Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below  ; 

And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 


THE  CASTLE  I5Y  THE  SEA.  135 

"Well  have  I  sesn  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  .'' 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ?" 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean. 

They  rested  quietly. 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride  .'' 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mandes  ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  .'' 


136  TRANSLATIONS. 

"Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 
A  beauteous  maiden  there  ? 

Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  " 

"Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents. 
Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 

They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe. 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  !  " 


137 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

'T  WAS  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake  ; 
"  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls, 

A  luxuriant  Spring  shall  break." 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly. 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

From  balcony  the  King  looked  on  ; 
In  the  play  of  spears. 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 


138  TRANSLATIONS. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  Knight. 

"  Sir  Knight !  your  name  and  scutcheon,  say ! " 
"  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  ; 

I  am  a  Prince  of  mighty  sway  !  " 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 

And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow. 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances. 
Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances  ; 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  ; 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT.  139 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 

Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame. 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined. 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look. 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  ; 

"  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole !  " 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  ; 

"  O  that  draught  was  very  cool !  " 


140  TRANSLATIONS. 

• 

Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter ;  and  their  faces 

Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 
Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

"  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father.!  " 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast ; 

"  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  !  " 


HI 


SONG   OF  THE   SILENT  LAND. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    SALIS. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand  • 

Thither,  O  thither. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !    Tender  morning-visious 


142  TRANSLATIONS. 


Of  beauteous  souls !  The  Future's  pledge  and  band ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

O  Land  !     O  Land  ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


143 


L'ENVOl. 


Ye  voices,  that  arose 

After  the  Evening's  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 

Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  "  Be  of  good  cheer  !  " 


Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm. 
That  in  the  groves  of  balm 
Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel's  psalm  ! 


144  L'ENVOI. 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar  ! 


Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 
But  speaking  from  death's  frost. 
Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 

Amid  the  chills  and  damps 

Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps  ! 


BALLADS 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


1842. 


10 


PREFACE. 


There  is  one  poem  in  this  volume,  in  ref- 
erence to  which  a  few  introductory  remarks 
may  be  useful.  It  is  The  Cliildren  of  the 
Lord's  Supper,  from  the  Swedish  of  Bishop 
Tegner ;  a  poem  which  enjoys  no  inconsider- 
able reputation  in  the  North  of  Europe,  and 
for  its  beauty  and  simplicity  merits  the  atten- 
tion of  English  readers.  It  is  an  Idyl,  de- 
scriptive of  scenes  in  a  Swedish  village;  and 
belongs  to  the  same  class  of  poems,  as  the 
Luise  of  Voss  and  the  Hermann  und  Dorothea 
of  Gothe.     But  the   Swedish  Poet  has  been 


148  PREFACE. 

guided  by  a  surer  taste,  than  his  German  pre- 
decessors. His  tone  is  pure  and  elevated ; 
and  he  rarely,  if  ever,  mistakes  what  is  trivial 
for  what  is  simple. 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  linger- 
ing about  rural  life  in  Sweden,  which  renders 
it  a  fit  theme  for  song.  Almost  primeval  sim- 
plicity reigns  over  that  Northern  land,  —  al- 
most primeval  solitude  and  stillness.  You 
pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the  city,  and,  as  if 
by  magic,  the  scene  changes  to  a  wild,  wood- 
land landscape.  Around  you  are  forests  of  fir. 
Over  head  hang  the  long,  fan-like  branches, 
trailing  with  moss,  and  heavy  with  red  and 
blue  cones.  Under  foot  is  a  carpet  of  yellow 
leaves ;  and  the  air  is  warm  and  balmy.  On 
a  wooden  bridge  you  cross  a  little  silver 
stream ;  and  anon  come  forth  into  a  pleasant 
and   sunny  land   of   farms.     Wooden   fences 


PREFACE.  149 

divide  the  adjoining  fields.     Across  the   road 
are  gates,  which  are  opened  by  troops  of  chil- 
dren.    The  peasants  take  off  their  hats  as  you 
pass ;  you  sneeze,  and  they  cry,  "  God  bless 
you."     The  houses  in  the  villages  and  small- 
er towns  are  all  built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for 
the  most  part  painted  red.     The  floors  of  the 
taverns  are   strewn  with  the  fragrant  tips  of 
fir  boughs.     In   many  villages   there  are  no 
taverns,  and  the  peasants  take  turns  in  receiv- 
ing travellers.     The  thrifty  housewife  shows 
you  into  the  best  chamber,  the  walls  of  which 
are  hung  round  with  rude  pictures  from  the 
Bible ;  and  brings  you  her  heavy  silver  spoons, 
—  an  heirloom,  —  to  dip  the  curdled  milk  from 
the  pan.     You  have  oaten  cakes  baked  some 
months  before ;  or  bread  with  anise-seed  and 
coriander  in  it,  or  perhaps  a  little  pine  bark. 
Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought 


150  PREFACE. 

his  horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed 
them  to  your  carriage.  Solitary  travellers 
come  and  go  in  uncouth  one-horse  chaises. 
Most  of  them  have  pipes  in  their  mouths,  and 
hanging  around  their  necks  in  front,  a  leather 
wallet,  in  which  they  carry  tobacco,  and  the 
great  bank  notes  of  the  country,  as  large  as 
your  two  hands.  You  meet,  also,  groups  of 
Dalekarlian  peasant  women,  travelling  home- 
ward or  town-ward  in  pursuit  of  work.  They 
walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their  hands  their 
shoes,  which  have  high  heels  under  the  hol- 
low of  the  foot,  and  soles  of  birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches, 
standing  by  the  road-side,  each  in  its  own 
little  garden  of  Gethseraane.  In  the  parish 
register  great  events  are  doubtless  recorded. 
Some  old  king  was  christened  or  buried  in 
that  church  ;  and  a  little  sexton,  with  a  rusty 


PREFACE.  151 

key,  shows  you  the  baptismal  font,  or  the 
coffin.  In  the  church-yard  are  a  few  flowers, 
and  much  green  grass ;  and  daily  the  shadow 
of  the  church  spire,  with  its  long  tapering  fin- 
ger, counts  the  tombs,  representing  a  dial- 
plate  of  human  life,  on  which  the  hours  and 
minutes  are  the  graves  of  men.  The  stones 
are  flat,  and  large,  and  low,  and  perhaps  sunk- 
en, like  the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On  some 
are  armorial  bearings ;  on  others  only  the  ini- 
tials of  the  poor  tenants,  with  a  date,  as  on 
the  roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all  sleep 
with  their  heads  to  the  westward.  Each  held 
a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand  when  he  died; 
and  in  his  coffin  were  placed  his  little  heart- 
treasures,  and  a  piece  of  money  for  his  last 
journey.  Babes  that  came  lifeless  into  the 
world  were  carried  in  the  arms  of  gray -haired 
old  men  to  the  only  cradle  they  ever  slept  in ; 


152  PREFACE. 

and  in  the  shroud  of  the  dead  mother  were 
laid  the  little  garments  of  the  child,  that  lived 
and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this  scene 
the  village  pastor  looks  from  his  window  in 
the  stillness  of  midnight,  and  says  in  his 
heart,  "  How  quietly  they  rest,  all  the  de- 
parted !  " 

Near  the  church-yard  gate  stands  a  poor- 
box,  fastened  to  a  post  by  iron  bands,  and 
secured  by  a  padlock,  with  a  sloping  wooden 
roof  to  keep  off  the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday, 
the  peasants  sit  on  the  church  steps  and  con 
their  psalm-books.  Others  are  coming  down 
the  road  with  their  beloved  pastor,  who  talks 
to  them  of  holy  things  from  beneath  his 
broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of  fields  and 
harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of  the  sower,  that 
went  forth  to  sow.  He  leads  them  to  the 
Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant  pastures 


PREFACE.  153 

of  the  spirit-land.  He  is  their  patriarch,  and, 
like  Melchizedek,  both  priest  and  king,  though 
he  has  no  other  throne  than  the  church  pulpit. 
The  women  carry  psalm-books  in  their  hands, 
wrapped  in  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  listen  de- 
voutly to  the  good  man's  words.  But  the 
young  men,  like  Gallio,  care  for  none  of  these 
things.  They  are  busy  counting  the  plaits  in 
the  kirtles  of  the  peasant  girls,  their  number 
being  an  indication  of  the  wearer's  wealth. 
It  may  end  in  a  wedding. 

I  will  endeavour  to  describe  a  village  wed- 
ding in  Sweden.  It  shall  be  in  summer  time, 
that  there  may  be  flowers,  and  in  a  southern 
province,  that  the  bride  may  be  fair.  The 
early  song  of  the  lark  and  of  chanticleer  are 
mingling  in  the  clear  morning  air,  and  the 
sun,  the  heavenly  bridegroom  with  golden 
locks,  arises  in  the   east,  just  as  ^  our  earthly 


154  PREFACE, 

bridegroom  with  yellow  hair,  arises  in  the 
south.  In  the  yard  there  is  a  sound  of  voices 
and  trampling  of  hoofs,  and  horses  are  led 
forth  and  saddled.  The  steed  that  is  to  bear 
the  bridegroom  has  a  bunch  of  flowers  upon 
his  forehead,  and  a  garland  of  corn-flowers 
around  his  neck.  Friends  from  the  neigh- 
bouring farms  come  riding  in,  their  blue 
cloaks  streaming  to  the  wind ;  and  finally  the 
happy  bridegroom,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand, 
and  a  monstrous  nosegay  in  the  breast  of  his 
black  jacket,  comes  forth  from  his  chamber  ; 
and  then  to  horse  and  away,  towards  the  vil- 
lage where  the  bride  already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  Spokesman,  followed 
by  some  half  dozen  village  musicians.  Next 
comes  the  bridegroom  between  his  two  grooms- 
men, and  then  forty  or  fifty  friends  and  wed- 
ding guests,  half  of  them  perhaps  with  pistols 


PREFACE.  155 

and  guns  in  their  hands.  A  kind  of  baggage- 
wagon  brings  up  the  rear,  laden  with  food 
and  drink  for  these  merry  pilgrims.  At  the 
entrance  of  every  village  stands  a  triumphal 
arch,  adorned  with  flowers  and  ribands  and 
evergreens;  and  as  they  pass  beneath  it  the 
wedding  guests  fire  a  salute,  and  the  whole 
procession  stops.  And  straight  from  every 
pocket  flies  a  black-jack,  filled  with  punch  or 
brandy.  It  is  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among 
the  crowd ;  provisions  are  brought  from  the 
wagon,  and  after  eating  and  drinking  and  hur- 
rahing, the  procession  moves  forward  again,  and 
at  length  draws  near  the  house  of  the  bride. 
Four  heralds  ride  forward  to  announce  that  a 
knight  and  his  attendants  are  in  the  neigh- 
bouring forest,  and  pray  for  hospitality.  "  How 
many  are  you?  "  asks  the  bride's  father.  "  At 
least  three  hundred,"  is  the  answer ;  and  to 


156  PREFACE. 

this  the  host  replies,  "  Yes ;  were  you  seven 
times  as  many,  you  should  all  be  welcome ; 
and  in  token  thereof  receive  this  cup."  Where- 
upon each  herald  receives  a  can  of  ale ;  and 
soon  after  the  whole  jovial  company  comes 
storming  into  the  farmer's  yard,  and,  riding 
round  the  May-pole,  which  stands  in  the  cen- 
tre, alights  amid  a  grand  salute  and  flourish  of 
music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a  crown  up- 
on her  head  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like  the 
Virgin  Mary  in  old  church  paintings.  She  is 
dressed  in  a  red  boddice  and  kirtle,  with  loose 
linen  sleeves.  There  is  a  gilded  belt  around 
her  waist ;  and  around  her  neck  strings  of 
golden  beads,  and  a  golden  chain.  On  the 
crown  rests  a  wreath  of  wild  roses,  and  below 
it  another  of  cypress.  Loose  over  her  shoul- 
ders falls  her  flaxen  hair ;  and  her  blue  inno- 


PREFACE.  157 

cent  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  ground.  O  thou 
good  soul !  thou  hast  hard  hands,  but  a  soft 
heart !  Thou  art  poor.  The  very  ornaments 
thou  wearest  are  not  thine.  They  have  been 
hired  for  this  great  day.  Yet  art  thou  rich ; 
rich  in  heaUh,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy  first, 
young,  fervent  love.  The  blessing  of  heaven 
be  upon  thee  !  So  thinks  the  parish  priest,  as 
he  joins  together  the  hands  of  bride  and  bride- 
groom, saying  in  deep,  solemn  tones,  —  "I 
give  thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to  be  thy 
wedded  wife  in  all  honor,  and  to  share  the 
half  of  thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key,  and  every 
third  penny  which  you  two  may  possess,  or 
may  inherit,  and  all  the  rights  which  Upland's 
laws  provide,  and  the  holy  king  Erik  gave." 

The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride 
sits  between  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest. 
The  Spokesman  delivers  an  oration  after  the 


158  PREFACE. 

ancient  custom  of  his  fathers.  He  interlards 
it  well  with  quotations  from  the  Bible ;  and 
invites  the  Saviour  to  be  present  at  this  mar- 
riage feast,  as  he  was  at  the  marriage  feast  in 
Cana  of  Galilee.  The  table  is  not  sparingly- 
set  forth.  Each  makes  a  long  arm,  and  the 
feast  goes  cheerly  on.  Punch  and  brandy  pass 
round  between  the  courses,  and  here  and  there 
a  pipe  is  smoked,  while  waiting  for  the  next 
dish.  They  sit  long  at  table ;  but,  as  all 
things  must  have  an  end,  so  must  a  Swedish 
dinner.  Then  the  dance  begins.  It  is  led 
off  by  the  bride  and  the  priest,  who  perform  a 
solemn  minuet  together.  Not  till  after  mid- 
night comes  the  Last  Dance.  The  girls  form 
a  ring  around  the  bride,  to  keep  her  from  the 
hands  of  the  married  women,  who  endeavour 
to  break  through  the  magic  circle,  and  seize 
their  new  sister.     After  long  struggling  they 


PREFACE.  159 

succeed ;  and  the  crown  is  taken  from  her 
head  and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and  her 
boddice  is  unlaced  and  her  kirtle  taken  ofT; 
and  like  a  vestal  virgin  clad  all  in  white  she 
goes,  but  it  is  to  her  marriage  chamber,  not  to 
her  grave  :  and  the  wedding  guests  follow 
her  with  lighted  candles  in  their  hands.  And 
this  is  a  village  bridal. 

Nor  must  I  forget  the  suddenly  changing  sea- 
sons of  the  Northern  clime.  There  is  no  long 
and  lingering  spring,  unfolding  leaf  and  blos- 
som one  by  one  ;  —  no  long  and  lingering  au- 
tumn, pompous  with  many-colored  leaves  and 
the  glow  of  Indian  summers.  But  winter 
and  summer  are  wonderful,  and  pass  into  each 
other.  The  quail  has  hardly  ceased  piping 
in  the  corn,  when  winter  from  the  folds  of 
trailing  clouds  sows  broad-cast  over  the  land 
snow,    icicles,   and    rattling   hail.     The   days 


IGO  PREFACE. 

wane  apace.  Ere  long  the  sun  hardly  rises 
above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at  all. 
The  moon  and  the  stars  shine  through  the 
day ;  only,  at  noon,  they  are  pale  and  wan, 
and  in  the  southern  sky  a  red,  fiery  glow,  as 
of  sunset,  burns  along  the  horizon,  and  then 
goes  out.  And  pleasantly  under  the  silver 
moon,  and  under  the  silent,  solemn  stars,  ring 
the  steel-shoes  of  the  skaters  on  the  frozen 
sea,  and  voices,  and  the  sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to 
burn,  faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing 
in  the  waters  of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a  soft 
crimson  glow  tinges  the  heavens.  There  is 
a  blush  on  the  cheek  of  night.  The  colors 
come  and  go ;  and  change  from  crimson  to 
gold,  from  gold  to  crimson.  The  snow  is 
stained  with  rosy  light.  Twofold  from  the 
zenith,  east  and  west,  flames  a  fiery  sword ; 


PREFACE.  101 

and  a  broad  band  passes  athwart  the  heav- 
ens, like  a  summer  sunset.  Soft  purple  clouds 
come  sailing  over  the  sky,  and  through  their 
vapory  folds  the  winking  stars  shine  white  as 
silver.  With  such  pomp  as  this  is  Merry 
Christmas  ushered  in,  though  only  a  single 
star  heralded  the  first  Christmas.  And  in 
memory  of  that  day  the  Swedish  peasants 
dance  on  straw ;  and  the  peasant  girls  throw 
straws  at  the  timbered  roof  of  the  hall,  and 
for  every  one  that  sticks  in  a  crack  shall  a 
groomsman  come  to  their  wedding.  Merry 
Christmas  indeed  !  For  pious  souls  there  shall 
be  church  songs  and  sermons,  but  for  Swe- 
dish peasants,  brandy  and  nut  brown  ale  in 
wooden  bowls ;  and  the  great  Yulecake  crown- 
ed with  a  cheese,  and  garlanded  with  apples, 
and  upholding  a  three-armed  candlestick  over 
the  Christmas  feast.  They  may  tell  tales, 
11 


162  PREFACE. 

toO;  of  Jons  Lundsbracka,  and  Lunkenfus,  and 
the  great  Riddar  Finke  of  Pingsdaga.* 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  mid-summer,  full 
of  blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is 
come  !  Saint  John  has  taken  the  flowers  and 
festival  of  heathen  Balder ;  and  in  every  vil- 
lage there  is  a  May-pole  fifty  feet  high,  with 
wreaths  and  roses  and  ribands  streaming  in 
the  wind,  and  a  noisy  weathercock  on  top,  to 
tell  the  village  v.^hence  the  wind  cometh  and 
whither  it  goeth.  The  sun  does  not  set  till 
ten  o'clock  at  night ;  and  the  children  are  at 
play  in  the  streets  an  hour  later.  The  win- 
dows and  doors  are  all  open,  and  you  may  sit 
and  read  till  midnight  without  a  candle.  O 
how  beautiful  is  the  summer  night,  which  is 
not  night,  but  a  sunless  yet  unclouded  day, 
descending  upon  earth  with  dews,  and  shad- 

*  Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales. 


PREFACE.  163 

ows,  and  refreshing  coolness!  How  beauti- 
ful the  long,  mild  twilight,  which  like  a  silver 
clasp  unites  to-day  with  yesterday !  How 
beautiful  the  silent  hour,  when  Morning  and 
Evening  thus  sit  together,  hand  in  hand,  be- 
neath the  starless  sky  of  midnight  !  From 
the  church-tower  in  the  public  square  the  bell 
tolls  the  hour,  with  a  soft,  musical  chime  ; 
and  the  watchman,  whose  watch-tower  is  the 
belfry,  blows  a  blast  in  his  horn,  for  each 
stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times,  to  the 
four  corners  of  the  heavens,  in  a  sonorous  voice 
he  chaunts,  — 

"Ho  !  watchman,  ho  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  ! 
God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand 
And  hostile  hand ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock !  " 

From  his  swallow's  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can 
see  the  sun  all  night  long ;  and  farther  north 


1G4  PREFACE. 

the  priest  stands  at  his  door  in  the  warm  mid- 
night, and  lights  his  pipe  with  a  common 
burning  glass. 

I  trust  that  these  remarks  will  not  be  deemed 
irrelevant  to  the  poem,  but  will  lead  to  a  clear- 
er understanding  of  it.  The  translation  is  lit- 
eral, perhaps  to  a  fault.  In  no  instance  have 
1  done  the  author  a  wrong,  by  introducing 
into  his  work  any  supposed  improvements  or 
embellishments  of  my  own.  I  have  preserved 
even  the  measure  ;  that  inexorable  hexameter, 
in  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  motions 
of  the  English  Muse  are  not  unlike  those  of 
a  prisoner  dancing  to  the  music  of  his  chains ; 
and  perhaps,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  the  dan- 
cing dog,  "the  wonder  is  not  that  she  should 
do  it  so  well,  but  that  she  should  do  it  at  all." 

Esaias  Tegner,  the  author  of  this  poem,  was 
born  in  the  parish  of  By  in  Warmland,  in  the 


PREFACE.  165 

year  17S2.  In  1799  he  entered  the  Univer- 
sity of  Lund,  as  a  student;  and  in  1812  was 
appointed  Professor  of  Greek  in  that  institu- 
tion. In  1824  he  became  Bishop  of  Wexio, 
which  office  he  still  holds.  He  stands  first 
among  all  the  poets  of  Sweden,  living  or  dead. 
His  principal  work  is  Frithiofs  Saga ;  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  poems  of  the  age.  This 
modern  Scald  has  written  his  name  in  im- 
mortal runes.  He  is  the  glory  and  boast  of 
Sweden  ;  a  prophet,  honored  in  his  own  coun- 
try, and  adding  one  more  to  the  list  of  great 
names,  that  adorn  her   history. 


1841. 


BALLADS 


1G9 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOUR. 


[The  following  Ballad  was  suggested  to  me  while  riding 
on  the  seashore  at  Newport.  A  year  or  two  previous  a  skel- 
eton had  been  dug  up  at  Fall  River,  clad  in  broken  and  cor- 
roded armour  ;  and  the  idea  occurred  to  me  of  connecting  it 
with  the  Round  Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known  hither- 
to as  the  Old  Wind-Mill,  though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes 
as  a  work  of  their  early  ancestors.  Professor  Rafn,  in  the 
Mimoires  de  la  Sociitd  Roijalc  des  Antiquaires  du  JVord, 
for  1838-1839,  says; 

"  There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance  the  style  in  which 
the  more  ancient  stone  edifices  of  the  North  were  construct- 
ed, the  style  which  belongs  to  the  Roman  or  Ante- Gothic 
architecture,  and  which,  especially  after  the  time  of  Charle- 
magne, diffused  itself  from  Italy  over  the  whole  of  the  West 
and  North  of  Europe,  where   it  continued  to    predominate 


170       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

until  the  close  of  the  12th  century;  that  style,  which  some 
authors  have,  from  one  of  its  most  striking  characteristics, 
called  the  round  arch  style,  the  same  which  in  England  is 
denominated  Saxon  and  sometimes  Norman  architecture. 

"  On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport  there  are  no  orna- 
ments remaining,  which  might  possibly  have  served  to  guide 
us  in  assigning  the  probable  date  of  its  erection.  That  no 
vestige  whatever  is  found  of  the  pointed  arch,  nor  any  ap- 
proximation to  it,  is  indicative  of  an  earlier  rather  than  of  a 
later  period.  From  such  characteristics  as  remain,  however, 
we  can  scarcely  form  any  other  inference  than  one,  in  which 
I  am  persuaded  that  all,  who  are  familiar  with  Old-Northern 
architecture,  will  concur,  that  this  building  was  erected 

AT  A  PERIOD  DECIDEDLY  NOT  LATER  THAN  THE  12tH  CEN- 
TURY. This  remark  applies,  of  course,  to  the  original  build- 
ing only,  and  not  to  the  alterations  that  it  subsequently  re- 
ceived ;  for  there  are  several  such  alterations  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  building  which  cannot  be  mistaken,  and  which 
were  most  likely  occasioned  by  its  being  adapted  in  modern 
times  to  various  uses,  for  example  as  the  substructure  of  a 
wind-mill,  and  latterly  as  a  hay  magazine.  To  the  same 
times  may  be  referred  the  windows,  the  fire-place,  and  the 
8i>ertures   made   above   the   columns.      That  this   building 


THK  SKELETON  IN   ARMOUR.  171 

could  not  have  been  erected  for  a  wind  mill,  is  what  an  archi- 
tect will  easily  discern." 

I  will  not  enter  into  a  discussion  of  tlie  point.  It  is  suffi- 
ciently well  established  for  the  purpose  of  a  ballad  ;  though 
doubtless  many  an  honest  citizen  of  Newport,  who  has 
passed  his  days  within  sight  of  the  Round  Tower,  will  be 
ready  to  exclaim  with  Sancho;  "  God  bless  nie  !  did  I  not 
warn  you  to  have  a  care  of  what  you  were  doing,  for  that 
it  was  nothing  but  a  wind-mill ;  and  nobody  could  mistake  it, 
but  one  who  had  the  like  in  his  head.'  ] 


"  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armour  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms. 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 


172  BALLADS   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December  ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 


"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  ! 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 


THE  SKELETON    IN    ARMOUR.  173 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Bahic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand. 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon  ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 


"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear. 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  so.aring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 


174      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  hfe  we  led  ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sjDed, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 


"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing. 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail. 
Filled  to  o'erflowing. 


THE  SKELETON   IN  ARMOUR.  175 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender  ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 


*•  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 


17G       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chaunting  his  glory  ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 


"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly. 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn. 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
-    From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


THE  SKELETON    IN   ARMOUR. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded  ? 


"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea. 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me,  — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  !  — 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 
With  twenty  horsemen. 
12 


178  BALLADS   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 


"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 

Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !   was  the  helmsman's  hail. 

Death  without  quarter  ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel  ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ! 


THE   SKELETON   IN   ARMOUR.  179 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  connorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again. 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 


"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward  ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour. 

Stands  looking  sea- ward. 


ISO       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 
She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another  ! 


"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men. 

The  sun-light  hateful  ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here. 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear. 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful  ! 


THE  SKELETON  IX  ARMOUR.        1 SI 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal !  to  the  Northland  !  skoal  /  "  * 

—  Thus  the  tale  ended. 


*  In  Scandanavia  this  is  the  customary  salutation  when 
drinking  a  healtli.  I  have  shghtly  clianged  tlie  orthography 
of  the  word,  in  order  to  preserve  the  correct  pronunciation. 


1S2 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 


It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  httle  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 


ii 


THE   WRECK   OF  THE  HESPERUS.  1S3 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  hehn, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 
I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port. 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 


"  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  !  " 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whifF  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 


184       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain, 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  hke  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 


"  Come  hither  !  come  hither  !  my  little  daughter. 
And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale, 
That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar. 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ? " 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast  !  " — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 


THE  WRECK   OF  THE   HESPERUS.  1S5 

"  O  father  !  I  bear  the  sound  of  guns, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 

"  O  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 
O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies. 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 


]  86  BALLADS   AND   OTHER   POExMS. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whisthng  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 

Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf, 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows. 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck. 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool. 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 


THE  WRECK  OF    i'HE   HESPERUS.  187 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast. 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
xVnd  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 


188 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 

FROM  THK  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

[The  tradition,  upon  which  this  ballad  is  founded,  and  the 
"  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall,"  still  exist  in  England. 
The  goblet  is  in  the  possession  of  Sir  Christopher  Musgrave, 
Bart.,  of  Eden  Hall,  Cumberland;  and  is  not  so  entirely  shat- 
tered, as  the  ballad  leaves  it.  ] 


Of  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 
Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call  ; 
He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 
And  cries,  'mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 
"  Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  !  " 


(( 


THE   LUCK  OF   EDEiNHALL.  1S9 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pahi, 
The  house's  oldest  seneschal, 
Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking  glass  of  crystal  tall  ; 
They  call  it  The  Luck  of  Edenhall. 


Then  said  the  Lord  ;  "  This  glass  to  praise, 

Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal  !  " 

The  gray-beard  with  trembling  hand  obeys  ; 

A  purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 


Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light. 
This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain- Sprite  ; 
She  wrote  in  it ;  //  this  glass  doth  fall 
Farewell  theii,  0  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 


190  BALLADS   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

"  'T  was  right  a  goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall  ! 
Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly  ; 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Kling  !  klang  !  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! " 


First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild. 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale  ; 
Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild  ; 
Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder's  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 


cc 


For  its  keeper  takes  a  race  of  might. 

The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall  ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right ; 

Kling  !  klang  !  —  with  a  harder  blow  than  all 

Will  I  try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  !  " 


THE  LUCK  OF   EDEMIALL.  191 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 
And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start  •■, 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all. 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! 


In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword  ; 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall. 
Slain  by  the  sword  hes  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 


On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone. 
The  gray-beard  in  the  desert  hall. 
He  seeks  his  Lord's  burnt  skeleton, 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin's  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 


192       BALLADS  A\D  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  The  stone  wall,"  saith  he,  "doth  fall  aside, 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall  ; 
Glass  is  this  earth's  Luck  and  Pride  ; 
In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  !  " 


19. 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 

FROM    THE    DANISH. 

[  The  following  strange  and  somewhat  mystical  ballad  is 
from  Nyerup  and  Rahbek's  Danske  Viser  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  It  seems  to  refer  to  the  first  preaching  of  Christianity 
in  the  North,  and  to  the  institution  of  Knight- Errantry. 
The  three  maidens  I  suppose  to  be  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity. 
The  irregularities  of  the  original  have  been  carefully  pre- 
served in  the  translation.] 


Sir  Oluf  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 

Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles  wide, 
But  never,  ah  never  can  meet  with  the  man 

A  tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 
13 


194      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 

He  saw  under  the  hill-side 

A  Knight  ftill  well  equipped  ; 
His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred  ; 

He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 

Twelve  httle  golden  birds  ; 
Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a  clang, 

And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  Httle  golden  wheels  ; 
Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew. 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they  flew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A  lance  that  was  poised  in  rest ; 

And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 
It  made  Sir  Oluf 's  heart  to  groan. 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT.  195 

* 

He  wore  upon  his  helm, 

A  wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 
And  thai  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  Knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down  ; 
"  Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven,"  quoth  he, 
"  So  will  I  yield  me  unto  thee." 


"  I  am  not  Christ  the  Great,  - 

Thou  shall  not  yield  thee  yet ; 
I  am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  bedight.' 


) 


"  Art  thou  a  Knight  elected, 

And  have  three  Maidens  thee  bedight  ; 
So  shalt  thou  ride  a  tilt  this  day. 
For  all  the  Maidens'  honor  !  " 


19G      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode, 
Neither  of  them  would  yield  ; 

The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain. 
And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower. 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


THE 


CHILDHEN 


OF 


THE   LORD'S  SUPPER. 


FK05I  THE  SWEDISH  OF  BISHOP  TEGNEK. 


199 


THE 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 


Pentecost,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.  The 
church  of  the  village 

Gleaming  stood  in  the  morning's  sheen.  On  the 
spire  of  the  belfry, 

Tipped  with  a  vane  of  metal,  the  friendly  flames 
of  the  Spring-sun 

(Jlanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by  Apos- 
tles aforetime. 


200      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Clear  was   the   heaven   and  blue,  and  May,  wiih 

her  cap  crowned  whh  roses. 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and  the 

wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured    gladness    and    peace,    God's-peace  ! 

with  lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered   the  race   of  the  flowers,   and  merry 

on  balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a  jubilant  hynni  to 

the  Highest. 
Swept  and  clean  was  the  churchyard.     Adorned 

like  a  leaf-woven  arbour 
Stood  its   old-fashioned  gate  ;    and  within    upon 

each  cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a  fragrant  garland,  new  twined  by  the 

hands  of  affection. 
Even  the  dial,  that  stood  on  a  hillock  among  the 

departed, 
(There  full  a  hundred  years  had  it  stood,)  was 

embellished  with  blossoms. 


THE  CHILDREN   OF  THE  LORD'S   SUPPER.     201 

Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his  kith 

and  the  hamlet, 
Who  on  his  birth-day  is  crowned  by  children  and 

children's  children. 
So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with  his 

pencil  of  iron 
Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured  the 

time  and  its  changes. 
While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity  slumber- 
ed in  quiet. 
Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for  this  was 

the  season 
When   the  young,  their    parents'  hope,  and  the 

loved-ones  of  heaven, 
Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  vows 

of  their  baptisni. 
Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept  and 

cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 
Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the 

oil-painted  benches. 


202      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

There  stood  the  church  hke  a  garden ;  the  Feast 
of  the  Leafy  Pavihons  * 

Saw  we  in  hving  presentment.  From  noble  arms 
on  the  church  wall 

Grew  forth  a  cluster  of  leaves,  and  the  preach- 
er's pulpit  of  oak-wood 

Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the  rod 
before  Aaron. 

Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves,  and 
the  dove,  washed  with  silver. 

Under  its  canopy  fastened,  had  on  it  a  necklace  of 
wind-flowers. 

But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar-piece 
painted  by  Horberg,f 

Crept  a  garland  gigantic  ;  and  bright-curling  tress- 
es of  angels 

*  The  Feast  of  the  Tabernacles;  in  Swedish,  Lofliyddo- 
hOgtidcn,  the  Leaf-huts'-high-tide. 

t  The  peasant- painter  of  Sweden.  He  is  known  chiefly 
by  his  altar-pieces  in  the  village  churches. 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   THE   LORD'S   SUPPER.      203 

Peeped,  like  the  sun   from  a  cloud,  from  out  of 

the  shadowy  leaf-work. 
Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished,  blinked 

from  the  ceiling, 
And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost  set 

in  the  sockets. 


Loud  rang   the  bells    already  ;  the    thronging 

crowd  was  assembled 
Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the   holy 

preaching. 
Hark  !  then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones 

from  the  organ, 
Hover  like  voices  from  God,  aloft  like  invisible 

spirits. 
Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  off  from 

him    his  mantle. 
Even  so  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth ; 

and  with  one  voice 


204  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem 

immortal 
Of  the  sublime  Wallin,*  of  David's  harp  in  the 

North-land 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther ;  the  song  on  its 

powerful  pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted   it  gently  to 

heaven, 
And  every  face  did  shine  like   the  Holy  One's 

face  upon  Tabor. 
Lo  !  there  entered  then  into  the  church  the  Rev- 
erend Teacher. 
Father  he  hight    and    he  was  in   the    parish  ;  a 

christianly  plainness 
Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man  of 

seventy  winters. 


•  A  distinguished  pulpit-orator  and  poet.     He  is  particu- 
larly remarkable  for  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  his  psalms. 


THE  CHILDREN   OF    THE   LORD'S   SUPPER.     205 

Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the  herald- 
ing angel 

Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a  contem- 
plative grandeur 

Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear,  as  on  moss-covered 
grave-stone  a  sun-beam. 

As  in  his   inspiration    (an    evening  twihght   that 
faintly 

Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the 
day  of  creation) 

Th'  Artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines  Saint 
John  when  in  Patmos, 

Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so  seemed 
then  the  old  man  ; 

Such  was   the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were 
his  tresses  of  silver. 

All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that  were 
numbered. 

But  with  a  cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the  left 
hand,  the  old  man 


206      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Nodding  all  hail  and   peace,  disappeared   in  the 
innermost  chancel. 


Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the  Chris- 
tian service. 

Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last   an  ardent  dis- 
course from  the  old  man. 

Many  a  moving  word  and  warning,  that  out  of 
the  heart  came 

Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna  on 
those  in  the  desert. 

Afterwards,  when  all  was  finished,  the  Teacher 
reentered  the  chancel. 

Followed  therein  by  the   young.     On  the  right 
hand  the  boys  had  their  places, 

DeHcate    figures,    with    close-curling    hair    and 
cheeks  rosy-blooming. 

But  on  the    left-hand  of  these,  there  stood    the 
tremulous  lilies, 


THE  CHILDREN   OF   THE  LORD'S   SUPPER.     207 

Tinged  with  the  blushing  hght  of  the  morning, 
the  diffident  maidens,  — 

Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes  cast 
down  on  the  pavement. 

Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  cate- 
chism.    In  the  beginning 

Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  falter- 
ing voice,  but  the  old  man's 

Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon,  and 
the  doctrines  eternal 

Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear 
from  lips  unpolluted. 

Whene'er  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft  as 
they  named  the  Redeemer, 

Lowly  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maidens  all 
courtesied.   . 

Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of  light 
there  among  them. 

And  to  the  children  explained  he  the  holy,  the 
highest,  in  few  words. 


208       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Thorough,  yet  simple   and   clear,  for    subhmity 
always  is  simple, 

Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a  child  can  seize  on 
its  meaning. 

Even  as  the  green-growing  bud  is  unfolded  when 
Spring-tide  approaches 

Leaf  by  leaf  is  developed,  and,  warmed  by  the 
radiant  sunshine. 

Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the  per- 
fected blossom 

Opens    its    odorous   chalice,  and   rocks  w^ith   its 
crown  in  the  breezes. 

So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  sal- 
vation. 

Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood.      The 
fathers  and  mothers 

Stood  behind  them   in  tears,  and  were  glad   at 
each  well-worded  answer. 


THE  CHILDREN   OF   THE   hORU'S   SUPPER.     209 

Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar  ;  —  and 
straightway  transfigured 

(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affection- 
ate Teacher. 

Like  the  Lord's  Prophet  subhme,  and  awful  as 
Death  and  as  Judgment 

Stood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul- 
searcher,  earthward  descending. 

Glances,  sharp  as  a  sword,  into  hearts,  that  to 
him  were  transparent 

Shot  he ;  his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like  the 
thunder  afar  off. 

So  on  a  sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there,  he 
spake  and  he  questioned. 


"  This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  faith  the 
Apostles  delivered, 
This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I  baptized 
you,  while  still  ye 
14 


210      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Lay  on   your  mothers'  breasts,  and   nearer  the 

portals  of  heaven. 
Slumbering  received  you  then  the  Holy  Church 

in  its  bosom  ; 
Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light  in 

its  radiant  splendor 
Rains  from  the  heaven  downward  ;  —  to-day  on 

the  threshold  of  childhood 
Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and  make 

your  election, 
For  she  knows  nought  of  compulsion,  and   only 

conviction  desireth. 
This  is  the  hour  of  your   trial,  the  turning-point 

of  existence, 
Seed  for  the  coming  days  ;  without  revocation 

departeth 
Now  from  your  lips  the  confession  ;  Bethink  ye, 

before  ye  make  answer  ! 
Think  not,  O  think  not  with  guile  to  deceive  the 

questioning  Teacher. 


THE  CHILDREN    OF  THE  LORD'S   SUPPER.      211 

Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a  curse  ever  rests 

upon  falsehood. 
Enter  not  with  a  he  on  Life's  journey  ;  the  mul- 
titude hears  you, 
Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear  upon 

earth  is  and  holy 
Standeth  before   your  sight    as    a  witness  ;    the 

Judge  everlasting 
Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and  angels 

in  waiting  beside  him 
Grave    your    confession    in  letters   of  fire,  upon 

tablets  eternal. 
Thus  then, — beheve  ye  in  God,  in  the   Father 

who  this  world  created  ? 
Him  who  redeemed   it,  the   Son,  and  the   Spirit 

where  both  are  united  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here,  (a  holy  promise  !)  to 

cherish 
God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every  man 

as  a  brother  ? 


212       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your  faith 
by  your  hving, 

Th'  heavenly  faith  of  affection  !  to  hope,  to  for- 
give, and  to  suffer, 

Be  v^^hat  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk  before 
God  in  uprightness  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and  man  ?  " 
—  With  a  clear  voice 

Answered  the  young  men  Yes !  and  Yes  !  with 
lips  softly-breathing 

Answered  the  maidens  eke.  Then  dissolved  from 
the  brow  of  the  Teacher 

Clouds  with  the  thunders  therein,  and  he  spake 
in  accents  more  gentle. 

Soft  as  the  evening's  breath,  as  harps  by  Baby- 
lon's rivers. 


"  Hail,  then,  hail  to  you   all !     To   the  heir- 
dom of  heaven  be  ye  welcome  ! 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  213 

Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  covenant 

brothers  and  sisters  ! 
Yet,  —  for  what  reason  not  children?     Of  such 

is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage   of  children,   in 

heaven  one  father. 
Ruling    them    all    as  his    household,  —  forgiving 

in  turn  and  chastising. 
That  is  of  human  life  a  picture,  as   Scripture  has 

taught  us. 
Blessed  are  the  pure  before  God  !     Upon  purity 

and  upon  virtue 
Resteth  the  Christian  Faith  ;  she  herself  from  on 

high  is  descended. 
Strong  as  a  man   and  pure  as  a  child,  is  the  sum 

of  the  doctrine. 
Which  the  Godlike  delivered,  and  suffered   and 

died  on  the  cross  for. 
O  !   as   ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood's  sa- 
cred asylum 


214      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Downward  and    ever   downward,  and  deeper  in 

Age's  chill  valley, 
O  !  how  soon  will  ye  come,  —  too  soon  !  —  and 

long  to  turn  backward 
Up   to  its  hill-tops   again,  to  the   sun-ilkinuned, 

where  Judgment 
Stood  hke  a  father  before  you,  and  Pardon,  clad 

like  a  mother. 
Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving  heart 

was  forgiven, 
Life  was  a  play  and  your  hands  grasped  after  the 

roses  of  heaven  ! 
Seventy  years  have   I  hved  already  ;  the  father 

eternal 
Gave   me  gladness   and   care  ;  but   the  loveliest 

hours  of  existence. 
When  I  have  steadfastly  gazed   in  their  eyes,  I 

have  instantly  known  them. 
Known   them  all  again; — they  were  my  child- 
hood's acquaintance. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  215 

Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides  in  the 
paths  of  existence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes   raised  to  heaven,  and  In- 
nocence, bride  of  man's  childhood. 

Innocence,   child  beloved,   is   a  guest  from    the 
world  of  the  blessed, 

Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a  lily  ;  on  life's  roar- 
ing billows 

Swings  she  in  safety,  she   heedeth  them   not,  in 
the  ship  she  is  sleeping. 

Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men  ; 
in  the  desert 

Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her  ;  she  her- 
self knoweth 

Naught   of  her  glorious  attendance  ;  but  follows 
faithful  and  humble. 

Follows  so  long   as   she  may  her  friend  ;  O  do 
not  reject  her, 

For  she  cometh  from  God  and  she  holdeth  the 
keys  of  the  heavens. — 


216       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Prayer  is  Innocence'  friend  ;  and  willingly  flyelh 
incessant 

'Tvvixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon 
of  heaven. 

Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an  exile, 
the  Spirit 

Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles  like 
flames  ever  upward. 

Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  father's  manifold 
mansions, 

Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blos- 
somed more  freshly  the  flowers. 

Shone  a  more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played  with 
the  winged  angels. 

Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close  ;  and 
homesick  for  heaven 

Longs  the  wanderer  again  ;  and  the  Spirit's  long- 
ings are  worship  ; 

Worship  is  called  his  tnost  beautiful  hour,  and  its 
tongue  is  entreaty. 


THE  CHILDREN   OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.     217 

Ah  !  when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  descendeth 
upon  us, 

Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth, 
in  the  grave-yard, — 

Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God  ;  for  his  sor- 
rowing children 

Turns  he  ne'er  from  his  door,  but  he  heals  and 
helps  and  consoles  them. 

Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  pros- 
perous with  us. 

Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life's  most  beautiful 
Fortune 

Kneels  down  before  the  Eternal's  throne  ;  and, 
whh  hands  interfolded. 

Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  giver  of 
blessings. 

Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that 
comes  not  from  Heaven  ? 

What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor  !  that  it  has 
not  received  ? 


218      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Therefore,  fall  In  the  dust  and  pray  !     The  ser- 
aphs adoring 
Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory  of 

him  who 
Hung  his  masonry  pendant  on  naught,  when  the 

world  he  created. 
Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firmament  ut- 

tereth  his  glory. 
Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fall  downward 

from  heaven, 
Downward    like    withered    leaves  ;    at   the    last 

stroke  of  midnight,  millenniums 
Lay  themselves   down  at  his   feet,  and   he  sees 

them,  but  counts  them  as  nothing. 
Who   shall  stand  in   his  presence  .''     The  wrath 

of  the  judge  is  terrific. 
Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a  glance.    When  he 

speaks  in  his  anger 
Hillocks   skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains  leap 

like  the  roe-buck. 


THE  CHILDREiN   OF  THE   LORD'S  SUPPER.     219 

Yet,  —  why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children?     This 

awful  avenger. 
Ah !  is  a  merciful  God  !    God's  voice  was  not  in 

the  earthquake 
Not  In  the  fire,  nor  the   storm,  hut  it  was  In   the 

whispering  breezes. 
Love  is  the   root   of  creation  ;  God's   essence  ; 

w^orlds  without  number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children  ;  he   made  them 

for  this  purpose  only. 
Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he  breathed 

forth  his  spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing,  it 

laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a 

flame  out  of  heaven. 
Quench,  O  quench   not  that  flame  !     It  is    the 

breath  of  your  being. 
Love  is  life,  but  hatred  Is  death.    Not  father,  nor 

mother 


220      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Loved  you,  as   God  has   loved   you  ;  for  't  was 

that  you  may  be  happy 
Gave  he  his  only  son.     When   he  bowed  down 

his  head  in  the  death-hour 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph ;  the  sacrifice  then 

was  completed. 
Lo  !  then  was   rent  on  a  sudden  the  vail  of  the 

temple,  dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from  their 

sepulchres  rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  Hps  and  low  in  the  ears  of 

each  other 
Th'  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  creation's 

enigma, — Atonement! 
Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement's  depths,  for  Love 

is  Atonement. 
Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the  mer- 
ciful Father  ; 
Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  from 

fear,  but  affection  ; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUrPER.  221 

Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves  ;  but  the  heart  that 

loveth  is  willing  ; 
Perfect  was  before  God,  and  perfect    is  Love, 

and  Love  only. 
Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest 

thou  likewise  thy  brethren ; 
One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one,  is 

Love  also. 
Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp  on 

his  forehead  ? 
Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  ?     Is  he 

not  sailing 
Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is 

he  not  guided 
By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ?   Why  shouldst 

thou  hate  then  thy  brother  ? 
Hateth  he  thee,  forgive  !    For  't  is  sweet  to  stam- 
mer one  letter 
Of  the  Eternal's  language  ;  —  on  earth  it  is  called 

Forgiveness ! 


222      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Knovvest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the  crown 

of  thorns  round  his  temples  ? 
Earnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  murderers  ? 

Say,  dost  thou  know  him  ? 
Ah  !  thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow  likewise 

his  example. 
Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a  veil  over 

his  failings, 
Guide  the  erring  aright ;  for  the  good,  the  heav- 
enly shepherd 
Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it  back 

to  its  mother. 
This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits  that 

we  know  it. 
Love  is  the  creature's  welfare,  with  God  ;  but 

Love  among  mortals 
Is  but  an  endless  sigh  !     He  longs,  and  endures, 

and  stands  waiting, 
Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears  on 

his  eyelids. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  223 

Hope,  —  SO  is  called  upon  earth,  his  recompense, 

—  Hope,  the  befriending, 
Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore   up 

to  heaven,  and  faithful 
Plunges  her  anchor's  peak  in  the  depths  of  the 

grave,  and  beneath  it 
Paints  a  more  beautiful  world,  a  dim,  but  a  sweet 

play  of  shadows  ! 
Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her  waver- 
ing promise. 
Having  naught  else  but  Hope.      Then  praise  we 

our  Father  in  heaven, 
Him,  who  has  given  us  more  ;  for  to  us  has  Hope 

been  transfigured, 
Groping  no  longer  in  night  ;  she  is  Faith,  she  is 

living  assurance. 
Faith  is  enlightened  Hope  ;  she  is  light,  is  the  eye 

of  affection, 
Dreams    of  the    longing    interprets,    and    carves 

their  visions  in  marble. 


224       BALLADS  AxND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Faith  is   tlie   sun   of  life  ;  and    her   countenance 

shines  hke  the  Hebrew's, 
For  she  has  looked  upon  God  ;  the  heaven  on 

its  stable  foundation 
Draws   she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the 

New  Jerusalem  sinketh 
Splendid  with   portals  twelve   in  golden  vapors 

descending. 
There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at  the 

figures  majestic. 
Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  them 

all  is  her  homestead. 
Therefore  love  and  believe ;  for  works  will  follow 

spontaneous 
Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ;  the  Right  from  the 

Good  is  an  oflspring, 
Love  in  a  bodily  shape ;  and  Christian  w^orks  are 

no  more  than 
Animate  Love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the  ani- 
mate spring-tide. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.   225 

Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God  ;  there  stand 

and  bear  witness 
Not  what   they  seemed, — but  what  they  were 

only.      Blessed  is  he  who 
Hears    their    confession  secure  ;    they  are  mute 

upon  earth  until  death's  hand 
Opens  the   mouth    of  the    silent.     Ye    children, 

does  Death  e'er  alarm  you  ? 
Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother  is  he, 

and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.     With  a  kiss  upon  lips 

that  are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and   departs,  and  rocked  in 

the  arms  of  affection. 
Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  'fore  the 

face  of  its  father. 
Sounds  of  his  coming  already  I  hear,  —  see  dim- 
ly his  pinions. 
Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn  upon 

them  !     I  fear  not  before  him. 
15 


226      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Death   is   only  release,  and  in   mercy  is    mute. 

On  his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast ;  and 

face  to  face  standing 
Look   I  on  God  as  he  is,  a  sun  unpolluted  by 

vapors  ; 
Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  I  loved,  the  spirits 

majestic. 
Nobler,  better  than  I ;  they  stand  by  the  throne 

all  transfigured, 
Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and  are 

singing  an  anthem, 
Writ  in  the  climate   of  heaven,  in  the  language 

spoken  by  angels. 
You,  in  hke  manner,  ye  children  beloved,  he  one 

day  shall  gather, 
Never  forgets  he  the  weary  ;  —  then  welcome,  ye 

loved  ones,  hereafter  ! 
Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows,  forget 

not  the  promise, 


THE  CHILDREN   OF  THE  LORD'S   SUPPER.     227 

Wander  from  holiness  onward  to  holiness ;  earth 

shall  ye  heed  not ; 
Earth  is  but  dust  and  heaven   is   light ;  I  have 

pledged  you  to  heaven. 
God  of  the  Universe,  hear  me  !  thou  fountain  of 

Love  everlasting, 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant !     I  send  up  my 

prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 
Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one  spirit 

of  all  these, 
Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here  !     I  have  loved 

them  all  hke  a  father. 
May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I  taught  them 

the  way  of  salvation. 
Faithful,  so  far  as   I  knew  of  thy  word  ;  again 

may  they  know  me, 
Fall  on  their  Teacher's  breast,  and  before   thy 

face  may  I  place  them. 
Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more   tried,  and 

exclaiming  with  gladness. 


228      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Father,  lo  !  I  am  here,  and  the  children,  whom 
thou  hast  given  me  !  " 


Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words  ;  and  now  at 

the  beck  of  the  old  man 
Knee  against  knee   they  knitted  a  wreath  round 

the  altar's  enclosure. 
Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  conse- 
cration, and  softly 
With  him  the  children  read  ;  at  the  close,  with 

tremulous  accents, 
Asked  he  the   peace  of  heaven,   a  benediction 

upon  them. 
Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the  day  ;  the 

following  Sunday 
Was  for  the  young  appointed  to  eat  of  the  Lord's 

holy  Supper. 
Sudden,  as    struck  from    the   clouds,   stood    the 

Teacher  silent  and  laid  his 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  229 

Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  upward  ; 

while  thoughts  high  and  holy- 
Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his  eyes 
glanced  with  wonderful  brightness. 

"On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows  !  perhaps  I 
shall  rest  in  the  grave-yard  ! 

Some  one  perhaps  of  yourselves,  a  lily  broken 
untimely, 

Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth  ;  why  delay  I } 
the  hour  is  accomplished. 

Warm  is  the  heart ;  — I  will  so  !  for  to-day  grows 
the  harvest  of  heaven. 

What  I  began  accomplish  I  now  ;  for  what  fail- 
ing therein  is 

I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the  rev- 
erend father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens  new- 
come  in  heaven, 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of 
Atonement .'' 


230      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I  have 
told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  a  symbol  it  is,  of  Atonement 
a  token, 

StabHshed  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man  by 
his  sins  and  transgressions 

Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  essence. 
'T  was  in  the  beginning 

Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and  it 
hangs  its  crown  o'er  the 

Fall  to  this  day ;  in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall ;  in 
the  Heart  the  Atonement. 

Infinite  is  the  Fall,  the  Atonement  infinite  hke- 
wise. 

See  !  behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  remem- 
bers, and  forward, 

Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her 
wearied  pinions, 

Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the  life- 
time of  mortals. 


THE  CHILDREN   OF   THE   LORD'S   SUPPER.     231 

Brought  forth  is  sin  full-grown  ;  but  Atonement 

sleeps  in  our  bosoms 
Still  as  the  cradled  babe  ;  and  dreams  of  heaven 

and  of  angels, 
Cannot   awake  to  sensation ;  is  hke  the  tones  in 

the  harp's  strings, 
Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  dehv- 

erer's  finger. 
Therefore,  ye   children  beloved,  descended  the 

Prince  of  Atonement, 
-Woke   the  slumberer  from  sleep,  and  she  stands 

now  with  eyes  all  resplendent. 
Bright  as  the  vault  of  the   sky,  and  battles  with 

Sin  and  o'ercomes  her. 
Downward    to    earth  he  came  and  transfigured, 

thence  reascended, 
Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there  he  still 

lives  in  the  Spirit, 
Loves  and  atones  evermore.      So  long  as   Time 

is,  is  Atonement, 


232      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Therefore  with  reverence  receive  this  day  her 
visible  token. 

Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  do  not  live.  The 
hght  everlasting 

Unto  the  bhnd  man  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the  eye 
that  has  vision. 

Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart 
that  is  hallowed 

Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ;  the  intention  alone 
of  amendment 

Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things, 
and  removes  all 

Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.  Only  Love  with 
his  arms  wide  extended, 

Penitence  weeping  and  praying  ;  the  Will  that  is 
tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 

Purified  forth  from  the  flames  ;  in  a  word,  man- 
kind by  Atonement 

Breaketh  Atonement's  bread,  and  drinketh  Atone- 
ment's wine-cup. 


THE  CHILDREN   Ot    lUE   LORD'S  SUPPER.    233 

But  he  who   cometh   up  hither,  unworthy,  with 

hate  in  his  bosom. 
Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guihy  of  Christ's 

blessed  body, 
And    the    Redeemer's   blood  !     To   himself  he 

eatelh  and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom  !     And  from  this,  preserve  us, 

thou  heavenly  Father! 
Are  ye  ready,  ye   children,  to  eat  of  the  bread 

of  Atonement  ? " 
Thus  with  emotion  he   asked,  and  together  an- 
swered the  children 
Yes  !  with  deep  sobs  interrupted.     Then  read 

he  the  due  supplications. 
Read  the  Form  of  Communion,  and  in  chimed 

the  organ  and  anthem  ; 
O !  Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest    away  our 

transgressions. 
Hear  us  !  give  us  thy  peace  !  have  mercy,  have 

mercy  upon  us  ! 


234       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Th'  old  man,  with  trembling  hand,  and  heavenly 

pearls  on  his  eyelids, 
Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt  round 

the  mystical  symbols. 
O  !  then  seemed  it  to   me,  as  if  God,  with  the 

broad  eye  of  mid-day, 
Clearer  looked   in  at  the  windows,  and   all   the 

trees  in  the  churchyard 
Bowed    down    their  summits    of  green,   and   the 

grass  on  the  graves  'gan  to  shiver. 
But  in  the  children,  (I  noted  it  well ;  I  knew  it) 

there  ran  a 
Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their  icy- 
cold  members. 
Decked  like   an  altar  before   them,  there   stood 

the  green  earth,  and  above  it 
Heaven  opened  itself,  as  of  old  before  Stephen  ; 

they  saw  there 
Radiant   in   glory  the    Father,  and  on  his  right 

hand  the  Redeemer. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  235 

Under  them  hear   they  the  clang  of  harpstriffgs, 

and  angels  from  gold  clouds 
Beckon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with  their 

pinions  of  purple. 


Closed  was  the  Teacher's  task,  and  with  heav- 
en in  their  hearts  and  their  faces, 

Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  hlin, 
weeping  full  sorely, 

Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but  ail  of 
them  pressed  he 

Moved  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a  prayer, 
his  hands  full  of  blessings. 

Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  inno- 
cent tresses. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


239 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 


Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands  ; 

The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 


240  BALLADS   AA'D   OTHER   POEMS, 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can. 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
"With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell. 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH.  241 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  liears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice. 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more. 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing. 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin. 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 
16 


242      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  hfe 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought  ! 


243 


ENDYMION. 


The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars  ; 

Her  level  rays,  hke  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green. 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 
Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 
Upon  the  meadows  low. 


244       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove. 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  free. 
The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 
In  silence  and  alone 
To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep. 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep. 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 


ENDYMION.  245 

O,  weary  hearts !  O,  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desohte, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown. 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  —  as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings  ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  !  " 


246 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN   OF    PFIZER. 

A  YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 
I  wander  through  the  world  ; 

Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I  dream,  that  once  a  wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked. 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 


TWO  LOCKS  OF   HAIR.  247 


I  wake  !     Away  that  dream,  —  away  ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 

It  ever  comes  again. 


The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought  ; 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought ; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see  ; 
And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks,  —  and  they  are  wondrous  fair, — 

Left  me  that  vision  mild  ; 
The  brown  is  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 


248       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 
Pale  grows  the  evening-red  ; 

And  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 
I  wish  that  I  w'ere  dead. 


249 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

NO   HAT   PAJAROS   EN   LOS   NIDOS   DE   ANTANO. 

Spanish  Proverb. 

The  sun  is  bright,  —  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky. 

Where  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 


250      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

All  things  are  new  ;  —  the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves  ;  — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love. 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme. 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  O !  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth. 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest  ! 


251 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall. 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past. 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 


252  BALLADS   Ai\D   OTHER  POEMS. 

Be  Still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall. 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


253 


GOD'S-ACRE. 


I  LIKE  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's- Acre  !     It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's-Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed,  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts. 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their  own. 


254       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  arch-angel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth ; 

And  each  bright  blossom,  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed  on 
earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow  ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place,  where  human  harvests  grow  ! 


255 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 


River  !  that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 

Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 


256      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Thou  has  taught  me,  Silent  River  ! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver  ; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide. 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 
When  T  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee. 
Nor  because,  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 


TO   THE  RIVER  CHARLES.  257 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee. 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried  ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

'T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River  ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 
17 


258 


BLLND  BARTIMEUS. 


Blind  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 

Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd  ;  —  he  hears  a  breath 

Say,  "It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  !  " 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 


BLIND  BAKTIMEUS.  259 

The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 
But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 
The  beggar's  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say,  "  He  calleth  thee  !  " 
0dgG£i,  iyeigai,  q)ai'iL  oe  ! 

Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  "  What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands  ?  " 
And  he  replies,  "  O  give  me  light ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight  !  " 
And  Jesus  answers,  "^  Tnays  * 
'  H  TtLCfTi?  60V  oioaxs  as  ! 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 

In  darkness  and  in  misery, 

Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Three, 

'Ii^Gov,  iXii^oov  f.i£  ! 

Odgosi,  h'yiigai,  vna/s  ! 

'  H  TiiojLS  GOV  aiaaxi  Gt  ! 


2G0 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 


Filled  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chaunt  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 


No  purple  flowers,  —  no  garlands  green. 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  misletoe. 


THE  GOBLET   OF   LIFE.  261 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart. 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart. 
Are  running  all  to  waste. 


And  as  it  mantling  passes  round. 
With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned. 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 


Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 


262      BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude. 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food  ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 


Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press, 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give  ! 


And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
AVith  which  its  brinn  may  overflow, 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 


THE  GOBLET   OF   LIFE.  2G3 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light  ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 
To  see  his  foeman's  face. 


Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light,  —  for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 


O  suffering,  sad  humanity  ! 
O  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery. 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die. 
Patient,  though  sorely  tried  ! 


264       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

I  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Wliere  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf ! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 
The  alarm,  —  the  struggle,  —  the  relief, 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


265 


MAIDENHOOD. 


Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  hes 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one. 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet. 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet. 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 


236  BALLADS   Ai\n   OTHER   POEMS. 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance. 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem. 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision. 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by. 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye. 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more. 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar .'' 


MAIDENHOOD.  20)1 

O,  then  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  —Life  hath  snares  ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
JNIorning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  sluaibered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows. 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ;  , 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 


268       BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  hps  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  hke  bahn,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal  ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart. 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  an. 


269 


EXCELSIOR. 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device 
Excelsior  ! 


His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath. 
Flashed  like  a  faulchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 


270  BALLADS   AND  OTIIKR  POEMS. 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
or  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior  ! 


"  Try  not  the  Pass  ! "  the  old  man  said  ; 

"Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !  " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied 
Excelsior  ! 


"  O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast  !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye. 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  ! 


EXCELSIOR.  271 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior  ! 


At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  off-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air 
Excelsior ! 


A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found. 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device 
Excelsior  ! 


272  BALLADS   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

There  in  the  twihght  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star. 
Excelsior  I 


POEMS    ON    SLAVERY. 


1842. 


18 


[The  following-  poems,  willi  one  exception,  were  written  at 
sea,  in  the  latter  part  of  October.  I  had  not  then  heard 
of  Dr.  Channing's  death.  Since  that  event,  the  poem 
addressed  to  hiin  is  no  longer  appropriate.  I  have  de- 
cided, however,  to  let  it  remain  as  it  was  written,  a  fee- 
ble testimony  of  my  admiration  for  a  great  and  good  man.] 


275 


TO   WILLIAM   E.  CHANNING. 


The  pages  of  thy  book  I  read, 

And  as  I  closed  each  one, 
My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

"  Servant  of  God  !  well  done  ! " 

Well  done  !  Thy  words  are  great  and  bold  ; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me. 
Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Half-batdes  for  the  free. 


276  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 

The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 
The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 

Insult  humanity. 

A  voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 

Speaking  in  tones  of  might. 
Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 

To  John  in  Patmos,  "Write!" 

Write  !  and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse. 
This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse ! 


277 


THE   SLAVE'S  DREAM. 


Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand  ; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 


278  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode ; 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain-road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand  ; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 

They  held  him  by  the  hand  !  — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains. 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 


THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM. 


279 


Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  CafFre  huts. 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyasna  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues. 

Shouted  of  liberty ; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 


280  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day ; 
For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep, 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 


281 


THE  GOOD  PART, 


THAT    SHALL    NOT    BE   TAKEX    AWAy. 


She  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa's  side, 

In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 
And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 

Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above, 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 


282  POEMS  ox  SLAVERY. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes  ; 

Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 

To  cast  the  captive's  chains  aside, 
And  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free ; 

And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 
Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 


THE  GOOD  PART.  28S 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 

To  break  the  iron  bands 
Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility, 
Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace  ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


284 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMxVL  SWAMP. 


In  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp 

And  a  bloodhomid's  distant  bay. 


Where  will-o'-the-wisps  and  glowworms  shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine. 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake ; 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP.        2S5 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  m  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 


A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 
On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame. 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 

Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 


All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 


286  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

From  the  morning  of  his  birth ; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  hke  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain. 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth ! 


287 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


Loud  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David! 
He,  a  Negro  and  enslaved, 
Sang  of  Israel's  victory, 
Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest. 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  hear, 


288  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion ; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad, 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 
Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen. 
And  an  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas  !  what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 
And  what  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night .'' 


289 


THE   WITNESSES. 


In  Ocean's  wide  domains, 
Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 
Deeper  than  plummet  hes, 

Hoat  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 
No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 
19 


290  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swhns, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

"We  are  the  Witnesses  !" 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men's  lives  ; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains. 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 
In  deserts  makes  its  prey  ; 

Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  schoolboys  from  their  play  ! 


THE  WITNESSES.  291 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide  ! 

These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves ; 

They  glare  from  the  ahyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

"  We  are  the  Witnesses  !  " 


292 


THE   QUADROON   GIRL. 


The  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored  with  idle  sail ; 

He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 
And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 
And  all  her  listless  crew 

Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 
Lito  the  still  bayou. 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL.  29^ 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  mider  his  roof  of  thatch, 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow ; 

The  Slaver's  thumb  was  on  the  latch. 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  "My  ship  at  anchor  rides 

In  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 
I  only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  risine  of  the  moon." 


'O 


Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude. 
Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A  Quadroon  maiden  stood. 


294  POEMS  ON   SLAVERY. 

Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light, 
Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare ; 

No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kh'tle  bright. 
And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a  smile 

As  holy,  meek,  and  faint. 
As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 

The  features  of  a  saint. 

"  The  soil  is  barren,  —  the  farm  is  old  ; " 
The  thoughtful  Planter  said  ; 

Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver's  gold. 
And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 

With  such  accursed  gains  ; 
For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 

Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 


THE  QUADHOON  GIRL.  295- 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 
Then  .pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden's  cheek. 

Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 
To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 

In  a  strange  and  distant  land  1 


296 


THE    WARNING 


Beware  !     The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 
The  lion  in  his  path, — when,  poor  and  blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  more. 
Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced  to  grind 

In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 

A  pander  to  Philistine  revelry, — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 

Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who  made 
A  cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe  ; 

The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  all. 

Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall  ! 


THE  WARNING.  297 

There  is  a  poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 
Shorn  of  his  strength,  and  bound  in  bonds  of 
steel, 

AVho  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Commonweal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 

A  shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 


1843. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONiE. 


Victorian,")  .     ,  ^  .,    ■,' 

(. Students  of  Alcala. 


Gentlemen  of  Madrid. 


Hv'POLITO, 

The  Count  of  Lara," 

Don  Carlos, 

The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

A  Cardinal. 

Beltran  Cruzado,    ....  Count  of  the  Gipsies. 

Bartolome  Roman,  .     .     .     .  A  young  Gipsy. 

The  Padre  Cura  of  Guadarrama. 

Pedro  Crespo, Alcalde. 

Pancho, Alguacil. 

Francisco, Lara's  Servant. 

Chispa, Victorian''s  Servant. 

Baltasar, Innkeeper. 

Preciosa, A  Gipsy  girl. 

Angelica, A  poor  girl. 

Martina, The  Padre  Cura's  niece. 

Dolores, Preciosa's  maid. 

Gipsies,  Musicians,  <fc. 


THE   SPANISH  STUDENT. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.  The  Count  of  Lara's  chambers.  Night. 
The  Count  in  his  dressing-gown,  smoking  and  con- 
versing with  Don  Carlos. 

LARA. 

You  were  not  at  the  play  to-night,  Don  Carlos  ; 
How  happened  It } 

DON    CARLOS. 

I  had  engagements  elsewhere. 
Pray  who  was  there  .-* 

LARA. 

Why,  all  the  town  and  court. 
The  house  was  crowded  ;  and  the  busy  fans 


302  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

Among  the  gayly  dressed  and  perfumed  ladies 
Fluttered  like  butterflies  among  the  flowers. 
There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Celi  ; 
The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom  Lover, 
Her  Lindo  Don  Diego  ;  Dona  Sol, 
And  Dona  Serafina,  and  her  cousins. 

DON    CARLOS. 

What  was  the  play  ? 

LARA. 

It  was  a  dull  affair  ; 
One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you  see, 
As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment. 
There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first  act. 
Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly  wounds. 
Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and  saying, 
"  O,  I  am  dead  !  "  a  lover  in  a  closet, 
An  old  hidalgo,  and  a  gay  Don  Juan, 
A  Dona  Liez  with  a  black  mantilla, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.  303 


Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown  lover, 
Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she  is  not  ! 

DON    CARLOS 

Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced  to-night  ? 

LARA. 

And  never  better.     Every  footstep  fell 
As  lightly  as  a  sunbeam  on  the  water. 
I  think  the  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Almost  beyond  the  privilege  of  woman  ! 

I  saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 

Her  step  was  royal, — queen-like,  —  and  her  face 

As  beautiful  as  a  saint's  in  Paradise. 

LARA. 

May  not  a  saint  fall  from  her  Paradise, 
And  be  no  more  a  saint  ? 

DON    CARLOS. 

Why  do  you  ask  } 

LARA. 

Because  I  have  heard  it  said  this  angel  fell, 


304  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

And,  though  she  is  a  virgin  outwardly, 
Within  she  is  a  sinner  ;  Hke  those  panels 
Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 
Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin  Mary 
On  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  Venus  ! 

DON    CARLOS. 

You  do  her  wrong  ;  indeed,  you  do  her  wrong  ! 
She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 

LARA. 

How  credulous  you  are  !    Why  look  you,  friend. 
There  's  not  a  virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 
In  this  whole  city  !    And  would  you  persuade  me 
That  a  mere  dancing-girl,  who  shows  herself, 
Nightly,  half-naked,  on  the  stage,  for  money. 
And  with  voluptuous  motions  fires  the  blood 
Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 
A  model  for  her  virtue  ? 

DON    CARLOS. 

You  forget 
She  is  a  Gipsy  girl. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  305 

LARA. 

And  therefore  won 
The  easier. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Nay,  not  to  be  won  at  all  ! 
The  only  virtue  that  a  Gipsy  prizes 
Is  chastity.     That  is  her  only  virtue. 
Dearer  than  hfe  she  holds  it.     I  remember 
A  Gipsy  woman,  a  vile,  shameless  bawd, 
Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  young  and  fair  ; 
And  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 
And  when  a  noble  lord,  touched  by  her  beauty, 
The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race, 
Offered  her  gold  to  be  what  she  made  others, 
She  turned  upon  him,  with  a  look  of  scorn. 
And  smote  him  in  the  face  ! 

LARA. 

And  does  that  prove 
That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  .'' 

DON    CARLOS. 

It  proves  a  nobleman  may  be  repulsed 
20 


306  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

When  he  thinks  conquest  easy.     I  believe 
That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degradation, 
Holds  something  sacred,  something  undefiled, 
Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher  nature, 
And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some  quenchless  gleam  of  the  celestial  light ! 

LARA. 

Yet  Preciosa  would  have  taken  the  gold. 

DON  CARLOS  {rising). 
I  do  not  think  so. 

LARA. 

I  am  sure  of  it. 
But  why  this  haste  ?     Stay  yet  a  little  longer, 
And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 

DON    CARLOS. 

'T  is  late.     I  must  begone,  for  if  I  stay 
You  will  not  be  persuaded. 

LARA. 

Yes  ;  persuade  me. 

DON   CARLOS. 

No  one  so  deaf  as  he  who  will  not  hear  ' 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  307 

LARA. 

No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will  not  see  ! 

DON    CARLOS. 

And  so  good  night.    I  wish  you  pleasant  dreams, 
And  greater  faith  in  woman.  [Exit. 

LARA. 

Greater  faith  ! 
I  have  the  greatest  faith  ;  for  I  believe 
Victorian  is  her  lover.     I  believe 
That  I  shall  be  to-morrow  ;  and  thereafter 
Another,  and  another,  and  another, 
Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 
As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 

(Enter  Francisco  with  a  casket.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  speed  with  Preciosa  ? 

FRANCISCO. 

None,  my  lord. 
She  sends  your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me  tell  you 
She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold. 


308  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

LARA. 

Then  I  will  try  some  other  way  to  win  her. 
Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  ? 

FRANCISCO. 

Yes,  my  lord  ; 
I  saw  him  at  the  jeweller's  to-day. 

LARA. 

What  was  he  doing  there  ? 

FRANCISCO. 

I  saw  him  buy 
A  golden  ring,  that  had  a  ruby  in  it. 

LARA. 

Was  there  another  like  it .'' 

FRANCISCO. 

One  SO  like  it 
I  could  not  choose  between  them. 

LARA. 

It  is  well. 
To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 

Do  not  forget.    Now  light  me  to  my  bed. 

[Exeunt. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  309 


SCENE  n. 

A  street  in  Madrid.     Enter  Chispa,  followed  by  musi- 
cians, ivith  a  bagpipe,  guitars,  and  other  instruments. 

CHISPA. 

Abernuncio  Satanas  !  and  a  plague  on  all  lov- 
ers who  ramble  about  at  night,  drhiking  the  ele- 
ments, instead  of  sleeping  quietly  in  their  beds. 
Every  dead  man  to  his  cemetery,  say  I ;  and 
every  friar  to  his  monastery.  Now,  here  's  my 
master,  Victorian,  yesterday  a  cow-keeper,  and 
to-day  a  gentleman  ;  yesterday  a  student,  and  to- 
day a  lover  ;  and  I  must  be  up  later  than  the 
nightingale,  for  as  the  abbot  sings  so  must  the 
sacristan  respond.  God  grant  he  may  soon  be 
married,  for  then  shall  all  this  serenading  cease. 
Ay,  marry!  marry!  marry!  INIother,  what  does 
marry  mean  .''  It  means  to  spin,  to  bear  chil- 
dren, and  to  weep,   my  daughter  !     And,  of  a 


310  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

truth,  there  is  something  more  in  matrimony  than 
the  wedding-ring.  {To  the  musicians.)  And  now, 
gentlemen,  Pax  vobiscum  !  as  the  ass  said  to 
the  cabbages.  Pray,  walk  this  way  ;  and  don't 
hang  down  your  heads.  It  is  no  disgrace  to 
have  an  old  father  and  a  ragged  shirt.  Now, 
look  you,  you  are  gentlemen  who  lead  the  life  of 
crickets  ;  you  enjoy  hunger  by  day  and  noise  by 
night.  Yet,  I  beseech  you,  for  this  once  be  not 
loud,  but  pathetic  ;  for  it  is  a  serenade  to  a  dam- 
sel in  bed,  and  not  to  the  Man  in  the  Moon. 
Your  object  is  not  to  arouse  and  terrify,  but  to 
soothe  and  bring  lulling  dreams.  Therefore, 
each  shall  not  play  upon  his  instrument  as  if  it 
were  the  only  one  in  the  universe,  but  gently, 
and  with  a  certain  modesty,  according  with  the 
others.  Pray,  how  may  I  call  thy  name, 
friend .'' 

FIRST    MUSICIAN. 

Geronimo  Gil,  at  your  service. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  311 

CHISPA. 

Every  tub  smells  of  the  wine  that  is  in  it. 
Pray,  Geronimo,  is  not  Saturday  an  unpleasant 
day  with  thee? 

FIRST    MUSICIAN. 

Why  SO  ? 

CHISPA. 

Because  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Saturday  is 
an  unpleasant  day  with  those  who  have  but  one 
shirt.  Moreover,  I  have  seen  thee  at  the  tavern, 
and  if  thou  canst  run  as  fast  as  thou  canst  drink, 
I  should  like  to  hunt  hares  with  thee.  What  in- 
strument is  that  ? 

FIRST    MUSICIAN. 

An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

CHISPA. 

Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the  bagpiper  of  Bu- 
jalance,  who  asked  a  maravedi  for  playing,  and 
ten  for  leaving  off.'* 

FIRST    MUSICIAN. 

No,  your  honor. 


312  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

CHI  SPA. 

I  am  glad  of  it.  What  other  instruments  have 
we  .'' 

SECOND   AND   THIRD    MUSICIANS. 

We  play  the  bandurria. 

CHISPA, 

A  pleasing  instrument.     And  thou  .-' 

FOURTH    MUSICIAN. 

The  fife. 

CHISPA. 

I  like  it ;  it  has  a  cheerful,  soul-stirring  sound, 
that  soars  up  to  my  lady's  window  like  the  song 
of  a  swallow.     And  you  others  ? 

OTHER    MUSICIANS. 

We  are  the  singers,  please  your  honor. 

CHISPA. 

You  are  too  many.  Do  you  think  we  are 
going  to  sing  mass  in  the  cathedral  of  Cordova  .'* 
Four  men  can  make  but  little  use  of  one  shoe, 
and  I  see  not  how  you  can  all  sing  in  one  song. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         313 

But  follow  me  along  the  garden  wall.  That  is 
the  way  my  master  climbs  to  the  lady's  window. 
It  is  by  the  Vicar's  skirts  that  the  devil  climbs 
into  the  belfry.  Come,  follow  me,  and  make  no 
noise.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 
Preciosa's  chamber.     She  stands  at  the  open  window. 

PRECIOSA. 

How  slowly  through  the  lilac-scented  air 
Descends  the  tranquil  moon  !     Like  thistle-down 
The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful  sky  ; 
And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of  shade 
The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in  song. 
And  hark  !    what  songs  of  love,  what  soul-like 

sounds, 
Answer  them  from  below  ! 


314  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 


SERENADE. 

Stars  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  315 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  !  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

{Enter  Victorian  by  the  balcony.) 

VICTORIAN. 

Poor,  little  dove  !     Thou  tremblest  like  a  leaf ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I  am  so  frightened  !     'T  is  for  thee  I  tremble  ! 
I  hate  to  have  thee  climb  that  wall  by  night ! 
Did  no  one  see  thee  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

None,  my  love,  but  thou. 

PRECIOSA. 

'T  is  very  dangerous  ;  and  when  thou  art  gone 
I  chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 
Thus  stealthily  by  night.    Where  hast  thou  been  .' 
Since  yesterday  I  have  no  news  from  thee. 


3i6  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

VICTOKIAN. 

Since  yesterday  I  've  been  in  Alcala. 
Ere  long  the  time  will  come,  sweet  Preciosa, 
When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more  divide  us  ; 
And  I  no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by  night 
To  steal  a  kiss  from  thee,  as  I  do  now. 

PRECIOSA. 

An  honest  thief,  to  steal  but  what  thou  givest. 

VICTORIAN. 

And  we  shall  sit  together  unmolested, 

And  words  of  true    love    pass  from   tongue   to 

tongue, 
As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  another. 

PRECIOSA. 

That  were  a  life  indeed  to  make  time  envious  ! 
I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  visit  me  to-night. 
I  saw  thee  at  the  play. 

VICTORIAN. 

Sweet  child  of  air  ! 
Never  did  I  behold  thee  so  attired 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  317 

And  garmented  in  beauty  as  to-night ! 

What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look  so  fair  ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Am  I  not  always  fair  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay,  and  so  fair 
That  I  am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 
And  wish  that  they  were  blind. 

PRECIOSA. 

I  heed  them  not ; 
When  thou  art  present,  I  see  none  but  thee  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

There  's  nothing  fair  nor  beautiful,  but  takes 
Something  from  thee,  that  makes  it  beautiful. 

PRECIOSA. 

And  yet  thou  leavest  me  for  those  dusty  books. 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou  comest  between  me  and  those  books  too 

often  ! 
I  see  thy  face  in  every  thing  I  see  ! 


318  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear,  thy  looks, 
The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 
And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
I  see  thee  dance  cachuchas. 

PRECIOSA. 

In  good  sooth, 
I  dance  with  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
To-morrow  morning. 

VICTORIAN. 

And  with  whom,  I  pray  ? 

PRECIOSA. 

A  grave  and  reverend  Cardinal,  and  his  Grace 
The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

VICTORIAN. 

"What  mad  jest 
Is  this  ? 

PRECIOSA. 

It  is  no  jest ;  indeed  It  is  not. 

VICTORIAN. 

Prithee,  explain  thyself. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  319 

PRECIOSA. 

Why,  simply  thus. 
Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here  into  Spain 
To  put  a  stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 

VICTORIAN.  , 

I  have  heard  it  whispered. 

PRECIOSA. 

Now  the  Cardinal, 
Who  for  this  purpose  comes,  would  fain  behold 
With  his  own  eyes  these  dances  ;  and  the  Arch- 
bishop 
Has  sent  for  me 

VICTORIAN. 

That  thou  may'st  dance  before  them ! 
Now  viva  la  cachucha  !     It  will  breathe 
The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old  men  ! 
'T  will  be  thy  proudest  conquest ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Saving,  one. 
And  yet  I  fear  these  dances  will  be  stopped, 
And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a  beggar. 


320  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

VICTORIAN, 

The  sweetest  beggar  that  e'er  asked  for  alms  ; 
With  such  beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I  saw  thee 
I  gave  my  heart  away  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Dost  thou  remember 
When  first  we  met  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

It  was  at  Cordova, 
In  the  cathedral  garden.     Thou  wast  sitting 
Under  the  orange  trees,  beside  a  fountain. 

PRECIOSA. 

'T  was  Easter- Sunday.    The  full-blossomed  trees 
Filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance  and  with  joy. 
The  priests  were  singing,  and  the  organ  sounded. 
And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  bell. 
It  was  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 
We  both  of  us  fell  down  upon  our  knees, 
Under  the  orange  boughs,  and  prayed  together. 
I  never  had  been  happy  till  that  moment. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  321 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou  blessed  angel ! 

PRECIOSA. 

And  when  thou  wast  gone 
I  felt  an  aching  here.     I  did  not  speak 
To  any  one  that  day.     But  from  that  day 
Bartolome  grew  hateful  unto  me. 

VICTOKIAN. 

Remember  him  no  more.     Let  not  his  shadow- 
Come  between  thee  and  me.      Sweet  Preciosa  ! 
I  loved  thee  even  then,  though  I  was  silent  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I  thought  I  ne'er  should  see  thy  face  again. 
Thy  farewell  had  a  sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 

VICTORIAN. 

That  was  the  first  sound  in  the  song  of  love  ! 
Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a  sound. 
Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 
Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul, 
And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.     We  hear 
The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone. 
21 


22  THE   SP'ANISH   STUDENT. 


ozz 


PRECIOSA. 

That  is  my  faith.     Dost  thou  believe  these  warn- 
ings ? 

VICTORIAN. 

So  far  as  this.     Our  feelings  and  our  thoughts 
Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 
As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well, 
And  from  below  comes  a  scarce  audible  sound, 
So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Hereafter, 
And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

PRECIOSA. 

I  have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no  words  to  say  it ! 
I  cannot  reason  ;  I  can  only  feel  ! 
But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. 
Thou  art  a  scholar  ;  and  sometimes  I  think 
We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 
The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 
Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the  stars  ; 
I  must  not  hold  thee  back. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  323 

VICTOKIAN. 

Thou  little  skeptic  ! 
Dost   thou  still   doubt  ?     What  I  most  prize  in 

woman 
Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect  ! 
The  intellect  is  finite  ;  but  the  aflx3Ctions 
Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 
Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth  ; 
What  am  I  .''     Why,  a  pigmy  among  giants  ! 
But  if  thou  lovest,  —  mark  me  !  I  say  Invest, 
The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 
The  world  of  the  affections  is  thy  world. 
Not  that  of  man's  ambition.     In  that  stillness 
Which  most  becomes  a  woman,  calm  and  holy, 
Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 
Feeding  its  flame.      The  element  of  fire 
Is  pure.     It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  nature, 
But  burns  as  brightly  in  a  Gipsy  camp 
As  in  a  palace  hall.     Art  thou  convinced  .'' 


324  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes,  that  I  love  thee,  as  the  good  love  heaven  ; 
But  not  that  I  am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 
How  shall  I  more  deserve  it  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Loving  more. 

PRECIOSA, 

I  cannot  love  thee  more  ;  my  heart  is  full. 

VICTORIAN. 

Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I  will  drink  it, 
As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 
And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A   WATCHMAN   (in  the  Street) . 

Ave  Maria 
Purissima  !     'T  is  midnight  and  serene  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Hear'st  thou  that  cry  ? 

PRECIOSA. 

It  is  a  hateful  sound, 
To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  32-") 

VICTORIAN. 

As  the  hunter's  horn 
Doth  scare  the  timid  stag,  or  bark  of  hounds 
The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 

PRECIOSA. 

Pray,  do  not  go  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

T  must  away  to  Alcala  to-night. 
Think  of  me  when  I  am  away. 

PRECIOSA. 

Fear  not  ! 
I  have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think  of  thee. 

VICTORIAN   (giving  her  a  ring). 
And  to  remind  thee  of  my  love,  take  this  ; 
A  serpent,  emblem  of  Eternity ; 
A  ruby,  — say,  a  drop  of  my  heart's  blood. 

PRECIOSA. 

It  is  an  ancient  saying,  that  the  ruby 
Brings  gladness  to  the  wearer,  and  preserves 
The  heart  pure,  and,  if  laid  beneath  the  pillow, 


326  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

Drives  away  evil  dreams.     But  then,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

VICTORIAN. 

What  convent  of  barefooted  Carmelites 
Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ? 

PRECIOSA   {laying  her  hand  vpon  his  mouth). 

Hush!  Hush! 
Good  night !  and  may  all  holy  angels  guard  thee ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Good  night !  good  night !     Thou  art  my  guardian 

angel  ! 
I  have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray  to  ! 
(He  descends  hj  the  balcony.) 
PRECIOSA. 

Take  care,  and  do  not  hurt  thee.    Art  thou  safe  .'' 

VICTORIAN   {from  the  garden). 
Safe  as  my  love  for  thee  !     But  art  thou  safe  .'' 
Others  can  climb  a  balcony  by  moonlight 
As  well  as  I.     Pray,  shut  thy  window  close  ; 
I  am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of  night 
That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy  lips. 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  327 

PRECIOSA   {throwing  down  her  handkerchief). 
Thou  silly  child  !     Take  this  to  blind  thine  eyes. 
It  is  my  benison  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

And  brings  to  me 
Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft  wind 
Wafts  to  the  out-bound  mariner  the  breath 
Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 

PRECIOSA. 

INIake  not  thy  voyage  long. 

VICTORIAN. 

To-morrow  night 
Shall  see  me  safe  returned.      Thou  art  the  star 
To  guide  me  to  an  anchorage.     Good  night ! 
My  beauteous  star  !    My  star  of  love,  good  night ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Good  night ! 

WATCHMAN   {ctl  a  distance). 
Ave  Maria  Purissiina  ! 


328  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 


SCENE  IV. 

An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcala.     Baltasar  asleep  on  a 
bench.     Enter  Chi.spa. 

CHISPA. 

And  here  we  are,  half-way  to  Alcah'i,  between 
cocks  and  midnight.  Body  o'  me  !  what  an  inn 
this  is  !  The  lights  out,  and  the  landlord  asleep. 
Hola  !  ancient  Baltasar  ! 

BALTASAR    (ivaJiing). 

Here  T  am. 

CHISPA. 

Yes,  there  you  are,  like  a  one-eyed  Alcalde  in 
a  town  without  inhabitants.  Bring  a  light,  and 
let  me  have  supper. 

BALTASAR. 

Where  is  your  master  .'' 

CHISP4. 
Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him.     We  have 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  329 

Stopped  a  moment  to  breathe  our  horses  ;  and, 
if  he  chooses  to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  open 
air,  looking  into  the  sky  as  one  who  hears  it  rain, 
that  does  not  satisfy  my  hunger,  you  know.  But 
be  quick,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry,  and  every  man 
stretches  his  legs  according  to  the  length  of  his 
coverlet.     What  have  we  here  ? 

BALTASAR   (setting  a  light  on  the  table). 

Stewed  rabbit. 

CHISPA    {eating). 

Conscience  of  Portalegre  !  Stewed  kitten, 
you  mean  ! 

BALTASAK. 

And  a  pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes,  with  a  roast- 
ed pear  in  it. 

CHISPA   (drinking). 

Ancient  Baltasar,  amigo  !  You  know  how  to 
cry  wine  and  sell  vinegar.  I  tell  you  this  is  noth- 
ing but  Vino  Tinto  of  La  Mancha,  with  a  tang 
of  the  swine-skin. 


330  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

BALTASAR. 

•  I  swear  to  you  by  Saint   Simon  and  Judas,  it 
is  all  as  I  say. 

CHISPA. 

And  I  swear  to  you,  by  Saint  Peter  and  Saint 
Paul,  that  it  is  no  such  thing.  Moreover,  your 
supper  is  like  the  hidalgo's  dinner,  very  httle 
meat,  and  a  great  deal  of  table-cloth. 

BALTASAR. 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

CHISPA. 

And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

BALTASAR. 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  You  must  have  your  joke. 
Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I  riot  ask  Don  Victo- 
rian in,  to  take  a  draught  of  the  Pedro  Ximenes  ? 

CHISPA. 

No  ;  you  might  as  well  say,  "  Don't-you- 
want-some  .''  "  to  a  dead  man. 

BALTASAR. 

Why  does  he  go  so  often  to  Madrid  ? 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  331 

CHISPA. 

For  the  same  reason  that  he  eats  no  supper. 
He  is  in  love.    Were  you  ever  in  love,  Baltasar  ? 

BALTASAR. 

I  was  never  out  of  it,  good  Chispa.     It  has 
been  the  torment  of  my  life. 

CHISPA. 

What !  are  you  on  fire,  too,  old  hay-stack  .'' 
Why,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  put  you  out. 

VICTORIAN    {without). 

Chispa  ! 

CHISPA. 

Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for  the  cocks  are 
crowing. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ea  !  Chispa  !  Chispa  ! 

CHISPA. 

Ea  !  Senor.  Come  with  me,  ancient  Balta- 
sar, and  bring  water  for  the  horses.  I  will  pay 
for  the  supper,  to-morrow.  [Exeunt. 


]32  THE  SPANISH   STUDENT. 


SCENE  V. 

A''icTORiAN*s  chambers  at  Alcald.     Hypolito  asleep  in  aa 
arm-chair.     He  awakes  slowly. 

HYFOLITO. 

I  must  have  been  asleep  !  ay,  sound  asleep  ! 
And  it  was  all  a  dream.     O  sleep,  sweet  sleep  ! 
Whatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair, 
Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Obhvion's  well,  a  healing  draught  ! 
The  candles  have  burned  low  ;  it  must  be  late. 
Where  can  Victorian  be  ?     Like  Fray  Carrillo, 
The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find  him 
Is  his  own  cell.     Here  's  his  guitar,  that  seldom 
Feels  the  caresses  of  its  master's  hand. 
Open  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument  ! 
And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a  song 
(He  plays  and  sings.) 


THK   SPANISH    STUDENT.  333 

Padre  Francisco ! 
Padre  Francisco ! 
What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Francisco  ■» 
Here  is  a  pretty  young  maiden 
Who  wants  to  confess  her  sins  ! 
Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in, 
I  will  shrive  her  from  every  sin. 
{Enter  Victorian.) 

VICTOKIAN. 

Tadie  Hypolito  !     Tadre  Hypolito  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Hypolito  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Come,  shrive  me  straight ;  for,  if  love  be  a  sin, 
I  am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 
I  will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 
A  maiden  vrooed  and  won. 

HYPOLITO. 

The  same  old  tale 
Of  the  old  woman  in  the  chimney  corner, 


334  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

Who,  while  the  pot  boils,  says,   "  Come  heie, 

my  child  ; 
I  '11  tell  thee  a  story  of  my  wedding-day." 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay,  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ;  so  full 
That  I  must  speak. 

HYPOLITO. 

Alas  !  that  heart  of  thine 
Is  hke  a  scene  in  the  old  play  ;  the  curtain 
Rises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo  !  enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay,  like  the  Sibyl's  volumes,  thou  shouldst  say  ; 
Those  that  remained,  after  the  six  were  burned, 
Being  held  more  precious  than  the  nine  together. 
But  listen  to  my  tale.     Dost  thou  remember 
The  Gipsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cordova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou  meanest  Preciosa. 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  335 


VICTORIAN. 

Ay,  the  same. 
Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Alcala. 
She  's  in  Madrid. 

HYPOLITO. 

I  know  it. 

VICTORIAN. 

And  I  'm  in  love. 

HYPOLITO. 

And  therefore  in  Madrid  when  thou  shouldst  be 
In  Alcala. 

VICTORIAN. 

O  pardon  me,  my  friend. 
If  I  so  long  have  kept  this  secret  from  thee  ; 
But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such  treasures, 
And,  if  a  word  be  spoken  ere  the  time. 
They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant  for  us. 

HYPOLITO. 

Alas  !  alas  !  I  see  thou  art  in  love. 


236  THE    SPAMSH    STUDENT. 

Love  keeps  the  cold  out  better  than  a  cloak. 
It  serves  for  food  and  raiment.     Give  a  Spaniard 
His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Dof^a  Luisa,  — 
Thou  knowest  the  proverb.     But  pray  tell  me, 

lover, 
IIovv  speeds  thy  wooing  .''     Is  the  maiden  coy  .'' 
Wj'ite  her  a  song,  beginning  with  an  Ave  ; 
Sing  as  the  monk  sang  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 

Ave  !  cujus  cakcm  dare 

Nee  centenni  commendare 
Sciret  Seraph  studio  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Pray,  do  not  jest !     This  is  no  time  for  it  ! 
I  am  in  earnest  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Seriously  enamored  .'' 
What,  ho  !     The  Primus  of  great  Alcala 
Enamored  of  a  Gipsy  ?     Tell  me  frankly, 
How  meanest  thou  .'' 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  337 

VICTORIAN. 

I  mean  it  honestly. 

HYPOLITO. 

Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Why  not  ? 

HYPOLITO. 

She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bartolome, 
If  I  remember  rightly,  a  young  Gipsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  Cordova. 

VICTORIAN. 

They  quarrelled, 
And  so  the  matter  ended. 

HYPOLITO. 

But  in  truth 
Thou  wilt  not  marry  her. 

VICTORIAN. 

In  truth  I  will. 

The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was  born  ! 

She  is  a  precious  jewel  I  have  found 
22 


338  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 
I  '11  stoop  for  it ;  but  when  I  wear  it  here, 
Set  on  ray  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 
The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not  laugh. 

HYPOLITO. 

If  thou  wear'st  nothing  else  upon  thy  forehead, 
'T  will  be  indeed  a  wonder. 

'  VICTORIAN. 

Out  upon  thee, 
With  thy  unseasonable  jests  !     Pray,  tell  me. 
Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  world  ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Not  much. 
What,  think'st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this  moment ; 
Now,  while  we  spisak  of  her  .'' 

VICTORIAN. 

She  lies  asleep, 
And,  from  her  parted  lips,  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of  flowers. 
Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and,  on  her  breast, 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  339 

The  cross  she  prayed  to,  e'er  she  fell  asleep, 
Rises  and  falls  with  the  soft  tide  of  dreams, 
Like  a  light  barge  safe  moored. 

HyPOLITO. 

Which  means,  in  prose. 
She  's  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a  little  open  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

O,  would  I  had  the  old  magician's  glass 
To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  child-hke  sleep  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay,  indeed  I  would  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou  art  courageous.     Hast  thou  e'er  reflected 
How  much  hes  hidden  in  that  one  word,  now  9 

VICTORIAN. 

Yes  ;  all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life  ! 

I  oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 

That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 


340  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 
What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the  death- 
bed, 
Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  ! 
What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells ! 
What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes  ! 
What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those  cheeks  ! 
What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal  shows  ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  struggling  ! 
What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  together  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay,  there  it  is  !  and,  if  I  were  in  love. 

That  is  the  very  point  I  most  should  dread. 

This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of  thine. 

Might  tell  a  tale  were  better  left  untold. 

For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy  fair  cousin, 

The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  tears 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         341 

Of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of  Colchis, 
Whom  thou,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 
Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a  woman's  love, 
Desertest  for  this  Glauce. 

VICTORIAN. 

Hold  thy  peace  ! 
She  cares  not  for  me.      She  may  wed  another. 
Or  go  into  a  convent,  and,  thus  dying. 
Marry  Achilles  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 

HYPOLITO   (rising). 
And  so,  good  night !    Good  morning,  I  should  say. 

(Clock  strikes  three.) 
Hark  !  how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace  of  Time 
Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day  ! 
And  so,  once  more,  good  night !     We  '11  speak 

more  largely 
Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 
Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician,  Sleep, 
Shall  show  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass. 
In  all  her  loveliness.     Good  night !  [Exit. 


342  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

VICTORIAN. 

Good  night ! 
But  not  to  bed  ;  for  I  must  read  awhile. 
( Throws  himself  into  the  arm-chair  ivhich  Hypolito  has 
left,  and  lays  a  large  hook  open  upon  his  knees.) 

Must  read,  or  sit  in  reverie  and  watch 
The  changing  color  of  the  waves  that  break 
Upon  the  idle  seashore  of  the  mind  ! 
Visions  of  Fame  !  that  once  did  visit  me, 
Making  night  glorious  with  your  smile,  where  are 

ye  .'' 
O,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are  gone, 
Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal } 
Or  teach  me  where  that  wondrous  mandrake  grows 
Whose  magic  root,  torn  from  the  earth  with  groans, 
At  midnight  hour,  can  scare  the  fiends  away, 
And  make  the  mind  prolific  in  its  fancies  .'' 
I  have  the  wish,  but  want  the  will,  to  act ! 
Souls  of  great  men  departed  !     Ye  whose  words 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  343 

Have  come  to  light  from  the  swift  river  of  Time, 
Like  Roman  swords  found  in  the  Tagus'  bed, 
Where  is  the  strength  to  wield  the  arms  ye  bore? 
From  the  barred  visor  of  Antiquity 
Reflected  shines  the  eternal  light  of  Truth, 
As  from  a  mirror  !     All  the  means  of  action  — 
The  shapeless  masses  —  the  materials  — 
Lie  everywhere  about  us.     What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 
That  fire  is  genius  !     The  rude  peasant  sits 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 
The  son  of  genius  comes,  foot-sore  with  travel, 
And  begs  a  shelter  from  the  inclement  night. 
He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant's  hand, 
And,  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 
Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine. 
And,  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown, 
It  gleams  a  diamond  !     Even  thus  transformed, 


344  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 

Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 

Of  some  poor,  houseless,  homeless,  wandering 

bard, 
Who  had  but  a  night's  lodging  for  his  pains. 
But  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those  of  Fame, 
Which  are  the  dreams  of  Love  !    Out  of  the  heart 
Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams. 
As  from  some  woodland  fount  a  spirit  rises 
And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps, 
Ere  the  enamored  knight  can  touch  her  robe  ! 
'T  is  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 
Like  the  enamored  knight  beside  the  fountain, 
Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  Life's  stream  ; 
Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark  waters. 
Clad  in  a  mortal  shape  !     Alas  !  how  many- 
Must  wait  in  vain  !     The  stream  flows  evermore, 
But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  rises  ! 
Yet  I,  born  under  a  propitious  star. 
Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my  dreams. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  345 

Yes  !  she  is  ever  with  me.     I  can  feel, 
Here,  as  I  sit  at  midnight  and  alone, 
Her  gentle  breathing  !  on  my  breast  can  feel 
The  pressure  of  her  head  !     God's  benison 
Rest  ever  on  it !     Close  those  beauteous  eyes. 
Sweet  Sleep  !  and  all  the  flowers  that  bloom  at 

night 
With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my  name  ! 
{Gradually  sinks  asleep.) 


346  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE   I.     Preciosa's  chamber.    Morning.     Preciosa. 
and  Angelica. 

PRECIOSA. 

Why  will  you  go  so  soon  ?     Stay  yet  awhile. 
The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 
From  hearts  that  shut  against  them  with  a  sound 
That  will  be  heard  in  heaven.    Pray,  tell  me  more 
Of  your  adversities.     Keep  nothing  from  me. 
What  is  your  landlord's  name  } 

ANGELICA. 

The  Count  of  Lara. 

PEECIOSA. 

The  Count  of  Lara  .''     O,  beware  that  man  ! 
Mistrust  his  pity,  —  hold  no  parley  with  him  ! 
And  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 
Than  touch  his  gold. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  347 

ANGELICA. 

You  know  him,  then  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

As  much 
As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  be  pure. 
As  you  would  keep  your  name  without  a  blemish, 
Beware  of  him  ! 

ANGELICA. 

Alas  !  what  can  I  do  ? 
I  cannot  choose  my  friends.    Each  word  of  kind- 
ness. 
Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  the  poor. 

PRECIOSA. 

INIake  me  your  friend.     A  girl  so  young  and  fair 
Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of  her  own  sex. 
What  is  your  name  ? 

ANGELICA. 

Angelica. 

PRECIOSA. 

That  name 
Was  given  you,  that  you  might  be  an  angel 


348  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

To  her  who  bore  you  !     When  your  infant  smile 
Made  her  home  Paradise,  you  were  her  angel. 
O,  be  an  angel  still  i     She  needs  that  smile. 
So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 
No  one  can  harm  you  !     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public  streets. 
I  have  no  other  shield  than  mine  own  virtue. 
That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected  me  ! 
Amid  a  thousand  perils,  I  have  worn  it 
Here  on  my  heart !     It  is  my  guardian  angel. 

ANGELICA  (rising). 
I  thank  you  for  this  counsel,  dearest  lady. 

PRECIOSA. 

Thank  me  by  following  it. 

ANGELICA. 

Indeed  I  will. 

PRECIOSA. 

Pray,  do  not  go.     I  have  much  more  to  say. 

ANGELICA. 

My  mother  is  alone.     I  dare  not  leave  her. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  349 

PRECIOSA. 

Some  other  time,  then,  when  we  meet  again. 
You  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone. 

(Gives  her  a  purse.) 
Take  this.     Would  it  were  more. 

ANGELICA. 

I  thank  you,  lady. 

PRECIOSA. 

No  thanks.     To-morrow  come  to  me  again. 
I  dance  to-night,  —  perhaps  for  the  last  time. 
But  what  I  gain,  I  promise  shall  be  yours. 
If  that  can  save  you  from  the  Count  of  Lara. 

ANGELICA. 

O,  my  dear  lady  !  how  shall  I  be  grateful 
For  so  much  kindness  ? 

PRECIOSA. 

I  deserve  no  thanks. 
Thank  Heaven,  not  me. 

ANGELICA. 

Both  Heaven  and  you. 


350  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

FRECIOSA. 

Farewell ! 
Remember  that  you  come  again  to-morrow. 

ANGELICA. 

I  will.     And  may  the  blessed  Virgin  guard  you, 
And  all  good  angels.  [Exit. 

PKECIOSA. 

May  they  guard  thee  too, 
And  all  the  poor  ;  for  they  have  need  of  angels. 
Now  bring  me,  dear  Dolores,  my  basquina. 
My  richest  maja  dress,  — my  dancing  dress. 
And  my  most  precious  jewels  !     jMake  me  look 
Fairer  than  night  e'er  saw  me  !     I  've  a  prize 
To  win  this  day,  worthy  of  Preciosa  ! 
(^Enter  Beltran  Cruzado.) 

CRUZADO. 

Ave  Maria  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

O  God  !  my  evil  genius  ! 
What  seekest  thou  here  to-day  .'' 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  351 

CRUZADO. 

Thyself,  — my  child, 

PRECIOSA. 

AVhat  is  thy  will  with  me  ? 

CRUZADO. 

Gold  !  gold  ! 

PRECIOSA, 

I  gave  thee  yesterday  ;  I  have  no  more. 

CRUZADO. 

The  gold  of  the  Busne,  —  give  me  his  gold  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I  gave  the  last  in  charity  to-day. 

CRUZADO. 

That  is  a  foolish  He. 

PRECIOSA. 

It  is  the  truth. 

CRUZADO. 

Curses  upon  thee  !     Thou  art  not  my  child  ! 
Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to  me  .'' 
Not  to  thy  father  .-'     To  whom,  then  .'* 


352         THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

PRECIOSA. 

To  one 

Who  needs  it  more. 

CRUZADO. 

No  one  can  need  it  more. 

PRECIOSA. 

Thou  art  not  poor. 

CRUZADO. 

What,  I,  who  lurk  about 
In  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome  lanes  ; 
I,  who  am  housed  worse  than  the  galley  slave  ; 
I,  who  am  fed  worse  than  the  kennelled  hound  ; 
I,  who  am  clothed  in  rags,  —  Belti'an  Cruzado, — 
Not  poor  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Thou  hast  a  stout  heart  and  strong  hands. 
Thou  canst  supply  thy  wants  ;  what  wouldst  thou 
more  .'' 

CRUZADO. 

The  gold  of  the  Busne  !  give  me  his  gold  ! 


o 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  35 

PRECIOSA. 

Beltran  Cruzado  !  hear  me  once  for  all. 
]  speak  the  truth.      So  long  as  I  had  gold, 
I  gave  it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  times, 
Never  denied  thee  ;  never  had  a  w^ish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.     Now  go  in  peace  ! 
Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and,  ere  long, 
Thou  shalt  have  more. 

CRUZADO. 

And  if  I  have  it  not. 
Thou  shalt  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich  chambers, 
Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food, 
And  live  in  idleness  ;  but  go  with  me. 
Dance  the  llornalis  in  the  public  streets. 
And  wander  wild  again  o'er  field  and  fell ; 
For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

PRECIOSA. 

What !  march  again  ? 

CRUZADO. 

Ay,  with  all  speed.     I  hate  the  crowded  town  ! 
23 


354  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

I  cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its  gates  ! 
Air,  —  I  want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue  sky. 
The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face. 
The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 
And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain  tops. 
Then  I  am  free  and  strong,  —  once  more  myself, 
Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Cales  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

God  speed  thee  on  thy  march  !  —  I  cannot  go. 

CRUZADO. 

Remember  who  I  am,  and  who  thou  art ! 
Be  silent  and  obey  !     Yet  one  thing  more. 

Bartolome  Roman 

PKECIOSA   {with  emotion). 

O,  I  beseech  thee  ! 
If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life. 
If  my  humility  and  meek  submission 
In  all  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 
One  feeling  of  compassion  ;  if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         355 

That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 
In  my  behalf,  who  am  a  feeble  girl, 
Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man  !     I  am  afraid  of  him  ! 
I  do  not  love  him  !     On  my  knees  I  beg  thee 
To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 

CKUZADO. 

O  child,  child,  child  ! 
Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a  bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal  it. 
I  will  not  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a  grandee's  mistress.     Make  thee  ready 
To  go  with  us  ;  and  until  then  remember 
A  watchful  eye  is  on  thee.  [Exit. 

PEECIOSA. 

Woe  is  me  ! 

I  have  a  strange  misgiving  in  my  heart ! 
But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I  '11  do, 
Befall  W'hat  may  ;  they  cannot  take  that  from  me. 

\Exit. 


356  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 


SCENE  II. 

A  room  in  the  Archbishop's  Palace.     The  Archbishop 
and  a  Cardinal  seated. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Knowing  how  near  it  touched  the  pubHc  morals, 
And  that  our  age  is  grown  corrupt  and  rotten 
By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Beseeching  that  his  HoHness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time. 
By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  bull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the  stage. 
All  this  you  know. 

CARDINAL. 

Know  and  approve. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

And  farther. 
That,  by  a  mandate  from  his  Holiness, 
The  first  have  been  suppressed. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  357 

CARDINAL. 

I  trust  for  ever, 
It  was  a  cruel  sport. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

A  barbarous  pastime, 
Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  and  Christian. 

CARDINAL. 

Yet  the  people 
Murmur  at  this  ;  and,  if  the  public  dances 
Should  be  condemned  upon  too  slight  occasion, 
Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we  cure. 
As  Panem  et  Circenses  was  the  cry. 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old. 
So  Pan  y  Toros  is  the  cry  in  Spain. 
Hence  I  would  act  advisedly  herein  ; 
And  therefore  have  induced  your  grace  to  see 
These  national  dances,  ere  we  interdict  them. 
(Enter  a  Servant.) 


358  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

SERVANT. 

The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her  the  musicians 
Your  grace  was  pleased  to  order,  wait  without. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Bid  them  come  in.    Now  shall  your  eyes  behold 

In  what  angelic  yet  voluptuous  shape 

The  Devil  came  to  tempt  Saint  Anthony. 

(Enter  Preciosa,  ivith  a  mantle  throion  over  her  head. 
She  advances  slowly,  in  a  modest,  half -timid  attitude.) 

CARDINAL   (aside). 
O,  what  a  fair  and  ministering  angel 
Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet  woman  fell ! 

PRECiosA  (kneeling  before  the  Archbishop). 
T  have  obeyed  the  order  of  your  grace. 
If  I  intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 
I  proffer  this  excuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

May  God  bless  thee. 
And  lead  thee  to  a  better  hfe.     Arise. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  359 

CARDINAL    (aside). 
Her  acts  are  modest,  and  her  words  discreet ! 
I  did  not  look  for  this  !     Come  hither,  child. 
Is  thy  name  Preciosa. 

PEECIOSA. 

Thus  I  am  called. 

CARDINAL. 

That  is  a  Gipsy  name.     Who  is  thy  father  .'' 

PRECIOSA. 

Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Cales. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

I  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  that  man  ; 
He  was  a  bold  and  reckless  character, 
A  sun-burnt  Ishmael  ! 

CARDINAL. 

Dost  thou  remember 
Thy  earlier  days  .'' 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes  ;  by  the  Darro's  side 
My  childhood  passed.     I  can  remember  still 


360  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped  with  snow ; 
The  villages,  where,  yet  a  little  child, 
I  told  the  traveller's  fortune  in  the  street ; 
The  smuggler's  horse,  the  brigand  and  the  shep- 
herd ; 
The  march  across  the  moor  ;  the  halt  at  noon  ; 
The  red  fire  of  the  evening  camp,  that  lighted 
The  forest  where  we  slept ;  and,  farther  back, 
As  in  a  dream  or  in  some  former  life. 
Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

'T  is  the  Alhambra, 
Under  whose  towers  the  Gipsy  camp  was  pitched. 
But  the  time  wears  ;  and  we  would  see  thee  dance. 

PRECIOSA. 

Your  grace  shall  be  obeyed. 

(She  lays  aside  her  mantilla.  The  music  of  the  cachucha 
is  played,  and  the  dance  begins.  The  Archbishop  and 
the  Cardinal  look  on  tvith  gravity  and  an  occasional 
frown;  then  make  signs  to  each  other;  and,  as  the  dance 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  361 

continues,  become  more  and  more  pleased  and  excited; 
and  at  length  rise  from  their  seats,  throiu  their  caps  in 
the  air,  and  applaud  vehemently  as  the  scene  closes.) 


SCENE  III. 

TTie  Prado.  A  long  avenue  of  trees  leading  to  the  gate  of 
Atocha.  On  the  right  the  dome  and  spires  of  a  convent. 
A  fountain.  Evening.  Don  Carlos  and  Hypolito 
meeting. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Hold  !  good  evening,  Don  Hypolito. 

HYPOLITO. 

And  a  good  evening  to  my  friend,  Don  Carlos. 
Some  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this  way. 
I  was  in  search  of  you. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Command  me  always. 

HYPOLITO. 

Do  you  remember,  in  Quevedo's  Dreams, 


(  362  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

The  miser,  who,  upon  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise  ? 

DON    CARLOS. 

I  do; 
But  what  of  that  ? 

HYPOLITO. 

I  am  that  wretched  man. 

DON    CARLOS. 

You  mean  to  tell  me  yours  have  risen  empty  ^ 

HYPOLITO. 

And  amen  !  said  my  Cid  Campeador. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Pray,  how  much  need  you  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Some  half  dozen  ounces. 

Which,  with  due  interest 

DON  CARLOS  {giving  his  purse). 

What,  am  I  a  Jew 

To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury  ? 
Here  is  my  purse. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 


363 


HYPOLITO. 

Thank  you.     A  pretty  purse, 
Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madrilena  ; 
Perhaps  a  keepsake. 

DON    CARLOS. 

No,  't  is  at  your  service. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thank   you   again.     Lie   there,  good  Chrysos- 

tom, 
And  with  thy  golden  mouth  remind  me  often, 
I  am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 

DON    CARLOS. 

But  tell  me, 
Come  you  to-day  from  Alcala  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

This  moment. 

DON    CARLOS. 

And  pray,  how  fares  the  brave  Victorian  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Indifferent  well;  that  is  to  say,  not  well. 


364         THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

A  damsel  has  ensnared  him  with  the  glances 
Of  her  dark,  roving  eyes,  as  herdsmen  catch 
A  steer  of  Andalusia  with  a  lazo. 
He  is  in  love. 

DON    CARLOS. 


And  is  it  faring  ill 


To  be  in  love  f 

HYPOLITO. 

In  his  case  very  ill. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Why  so  ? 

HYPOLITO. 

For  many  reasons.    First  and  foremost, 
Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  ideal  : 
A  creature  of  his  own  imagination  ; 
A  child  of  air  ;  an  echo  of  his  heart ; 
And,  like  a  lily  on  a  river  floating. 
She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts  ! 

DON    CARLOS. 

A  common  thing  with  poets.     But  who  is 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  365 

This  floating  lily  ?     For,  in  fine,  sonae  woman, 
Some  living  woman, — not  a  mere  ideal, — 
Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his  thought. 
Who  is  it  ?     Tell  me. 

HYPOLITO. 

Well,  it  is  a  woman  ! 
But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 
He  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn  her. 
As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favorite  saint 
With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she  gleams 
One  blaze  of  glory.     Without  these,  you  knovv, 
And  the  priest's  benediction,  't  is  a  doll. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Well,  well !  who  is  this  doll .'' 

HYPOLlTO. 

Why,  who  do  you  think  .'' 

DON    CARLOS. 

His  cousin  Violante. 

HYPOLITO. 

Guess  again. 


366  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

To  ease  his  laboring  heart,  in  the  last  storm 
He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her  ingots. 

DON    CAELOS. 

I  cannot  guess  ;  so  tell  me  who  it  is. 

HYPOLITO. 

Not  I. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Why  not  ? 

HYPOLITO   {mysteriously.) 

Why  ?   Because  Mari  Franca 
Was  married  four  leagues  out  of  Salamanca  ! 

DON    CARLOS. 

Jesting  aside,  who  is  it  ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Preciosa. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Impossible  !     The  Count  of  Lara  tells  me 
She  is  not  virtuous. 

HYPOLITO. 

Did  I  say  she  was  } 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  367 

The  Roman  Emperor  Claudius  had  a  wife 
Whose  name  was  Messalina,  as  I  think  ; 
Valeria  Messalina  was  her  name. 
But  hist  !    I  see  him  yonder  through  the  trees, 
Walking  as  in  a  dream. 

DON    CARLOS. 

He  comes  this  way. 

HYPOLITO. 

It  has  been  truly  said  by  some  wise  man, 
That  money,  grief,  and  love  cannot  be  hidden. 
{Enter  Victorian  in  front.) 

VICTOKIAN. 

Where'er  thy  step  has  passed  is  holy  ground  ! 
These  groves  are  sacred  !    I  behold  thee  walking 
Under  these  shadowy  trees,  where  we  have  walked 
At  evening,  and  I  feel  thy  presence  now  ; 
Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a  charm  from  thee, 
And  is  for  ever  hallowed. 

HYPOLITO. 

Mark  him  well ! 


368  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT, 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly  air, 

Like  that  odd  guest  of  stone,  that  grim  Commander 

Who  comes  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the  play. 

DON    CARLOS. 

What  ho  !  Victorian  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Wilt  thou  sup  with  us  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Hola  !  amigos  !     Faith,  I  did  not  see  you. 
How  fares  Don  Carlos  ? 

DON    CARLOS. 

At  your  service  ever. 

VICTORIAN. 

How  is  that  young  and  green-eyed  Gaditana 
That  you  both  wot  of  ? 

DON    CARLOS. 

Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes  ! 
She  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 

HYPOLITO. 

»^y  de  mi ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  369 

VICTORIAN. 

You  are  much  to  blame  for  letting  her  go  back. 
A  pretty  girl ;  and  in  her  tender  eyes 
Just  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  sometimes  see 
In  evening  skies. 

HYPOLITO. 

But,  speaking  of  green  eyes, 
Are  thine  green  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Not  a  whit.    Why  so  ? 

HYPOLITO. 

I  think 
The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be  becoming, 
For  thou  art  jealous. 

VICTORIAN. 

No,  I  am  not  jealous. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou  shouldst  be. 

VICTORIAN. 

Why .' 
24 


370  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

HYPOLITO. 

Because  thou  art  in  love. 
And  they  who  are  in  love  are  always  jealous. 
Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 

VICTORIAN. 

Marry,  is  that  all  .'' 
Farewell ;  I  am  in  haste.    Farewell,  Don  Carlos. 
Thou  sayest  I  should  be  jealous  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay,  in  truth 
I  fear  there  is  reason.     Be  upon  thy  guard. 
T  hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of  Lara 
Lays  siege  to  the  same  citadel. 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed  ! 
Then  he  will  have  his  labor  for  his  pains. 

HYPOLITO. 

He  does  not  think  so,  and  Don  Carlos  tells  me 
He  boasts  of  his  success. 

VICTORIAN. 

How  's  this,  Don  Carlos  .-* 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT,  371 

DON    CARLOS. 

Some  hints  of  it  I  heard  from  his  own  lips. 
He  spoke  but  hghtly  of  the  lady's  virtue, 
As  a  gay  man  might  speak. 

VICTORIAN. 

Death  and  damnation  ! 
I  '11  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
And  throw  it  to  my  dog  !     But  no,  no,  no  ! 
This  cannot  be.     You  jest,  indeed  you  jest. 
Trifle  with  me  no  more.     For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.     And  so,  farewell !  - 

[Exit. 

HYPOLITO. 

Now  what  a  coil  is  here  !     The  Avenging  Child 
Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death. 
And  the  great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he  rode 
To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 
Were  nothing  to  him  !     O  hot-headed  youth  ! 
But  come  ;  we  will  not  follow.     Let  us  join 
The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado.     There 


372  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

We  shall  find  merrier  company  ;  I  see 

The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas, 

And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Preciosa's  chamber.  She  is  sitting,  tvith  a  booh  in  her 
hand,  near  a  table,  on  ivhich  are  flowers.  A  bird  sing- 
ing in  its  cage.  Tlie  Count  of  Lara  enters  behind 
unperceived. 

PRECIOSA  (reads). 
All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 

Heigho  !  I  wish  Victorian  were  here. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  makes  me  so  restless  ! 

(The  bird  sings.) 
Thou  little  prisoner  with  thy  motley  coat, 
That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon  singest, 
Like  thee  1  am  a  captive,  and,  like  thee, 
1  have  a  gentle  gaoler.     Lack-a-day  ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         373 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 
All  this  throbbing-,  all  this  aching, 
Evermore  shall  keep  thee  waking, 
For  a  heart  in  sorrow  breaking 
Thinketh  ever  of  its  smart ! 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet !  and  methinks 
More  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of  ours 
Than  one  would  say.     In  distant  villages 
And  solitudes  remote,  where  winds  have  wafted 
The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  of  passage 
Scattered    them    in    their    flight,    do    they    take 

root. 
And  grow  in  silence,  and  in  silence  perish. 
Who  hears  the  falling  of  the  forest  leaf  ? 
Or  who  takes  note  of  every  flower  that  dies  ? 
Heigho  !   I  wish  Victorian  would  come. 
Dolores  ! 
(  Turns  to  lay  down  her  book,  and  perceivps  the  Count.) 
Ha! 


374  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

LARA. 

Senora,  pardon  me  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

How  's  this  .''     Dolores  ! 

LARA. 

Pardon  me  - 


PRECIOSA. 

Dolores ! 

LARA. 

Be  not  alarmed  ;  I  found  no  one  in  waiting. 

If  I  have  been  too  bold 

PRECIOSA   (turning  her  back  upon  him). 

You  are  too  bold  ! 
Retire  !  retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

LARA. 

My  dear  lady, 
First  hear  me  !     I  beseech  you,  let  me  speak  ! 
'T  is  for  your  good  I  come. 

PRECIOSA   (turning  toward  him  tvith  indignation) . 

Begone  !    Begone  ! 


THE    SPANISH   STUDENT.  375 

You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your  deeds 
Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush  on  their  tombs  !     Is  it  Caslilian  honor, 
Is  it  Castilian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a  friendless  giil,  to  do  her  wrong  ? 

0  shame  !  shame  !  shame  !  that  you,  a  nobleman, 
Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 

As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love, 
And  think  to  buy  my  honor  with  your  gold  ! 

1  have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I  scorn  you  ! 
Begone  !  The  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me  ! 
Begone,  I  say  ! 

LARA. 

Be  calm  ;  I  will  not  harm  you. 

PRECIOSA. 

Because  you  dare  not. 

LAEA. 

I  dare  any  thing  ! 
Therefore  beware  !     You  are  deceived  in  me. 
In  this  false  world,  we  do  not  always  know 


376  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

Who  are  our  friends  and  who  our  enemies. 
We  all  have  enemies,  and  all  need  friends. 
Even  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court 
Have  foes,  who  seek  to  wrong  you. 

PKECIOSA. 

If  to  this 
I  owe  the  honor  of  the  present  visit. 
You  might  have   spared    the   coming.      Having 

spoken, 
Once  more  I  beg  you,  leave  me  to  myself. 

LARA. 

I  thought  it  but  a  friendly  part  to  tell  you 
What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in  town. 
For  my  own  self,  I  do  not  credit  them  ; 
But  there  are  many  who,  not  knowing  you. 
Will  lend  a  readier  ear. 

PRECIOSA. 

There  was  no  need 
That  you  should  take  upon  yourself  the  duty 
Of  telling  me  these  tales. 


THE    SPANISH   STUDENT.  377 

LARA. 

Malicious  tongues 
Are  ever  busy  with  your  name. 

PRECIOSA. 

Alas! 
I  have  no  protectors.     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Exposed  to  insults  and  unfeeling  jests. 
They  wound  me,  yet  I  cannot  shield  myself. 
I  give  no  cause  for  these  reports.     I  live 
Retired  ;  am  visited  by  none. 

LARA. 

By  none  .'' 
O,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

How  mean  you  .'' 

LARA. 

Nay,  nay  ;  I  will  not  wound  your  gentle  soul 
By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 

PRECIOSA. 

Speak  out  ! 
What  are  these  idle  tales  ?   You  need  not  spare  me. 


378  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

LARA. 

I  will  deal  frankly  with  you.     Pardon  me  ; 

This  window,  as  1  think,  looks  toward  the  street, 

And  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  ? 

In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden  wall, — 

You  see  the  roof  there  just  above  the  trees, — 

There  lives  a  friend,  who  told  me  yesterday, 

That  on  a  certain  night,  —  be  not  offended 

If  I  too  plainly  speak,  —  he  saw  a  man 

CHmb  to  your  chamber  window.    You  are  silent ! 

I  would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and  fair 

{He  tries  to  embrace  her.     She  starts  back,  and  draws  a 
dagger  from  her  bosom.) 

PEECIOSA. 

Beware  !  beware  !  I  am  a  Gipsy  girl  ! 

Lay  not  your  hand  upon  me.     One  step  nearer 

And  I  will  strike  ! 

LARA. 

Pray  you,  put  up  that  dagger. 
Fear  not. 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  379 

PRECIOSA. 

I  do  not  fear.     I  have  a  heart 
In  whose  strength  I  can  trust. 

LARA. 

Listen  to  me. 
I  come  here  as  your  friend,  —  I  am  your  friend,  — 
And  by  a  single  word  can  put  a  stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your  name 
Spotless  as  lilies  are.     Here  on  my  knees, 
Fair  Preciosa  !  on  my  knees  I  swear, 
I  love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that  love 
Has  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  custom, 
And  force  myself  unasked  into  your  presence. 
(Victorian  enters  behind.) 
PRECIOSA. 

Ptise,  Count  of  Lara  !     That  is  not  the  place 
For  such  as  you  are.     It  becomes  you  not 
To  kneel  before  me.     I  am  strangely  moved 
To  see  one  of  your  rank  thus  low  and  humbled  ; 
For  your  sake  I  will  put  aside  all  anger. 


3S0  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and  speak 
In  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a  woman, 
And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.     I  no  more 
Will  hate  you,  for  all  hate  is  painful  to  me. 
But  if,  without  offending  modesty 
And  that  reserve  which  is  a  woman's  glory, 
I  may  speak  freely,  I  will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 

LARA. 

O  sweet  angel ! 

PEECIOSA. 

Ay,  in  truth. 
Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 

LARA. 

Give  me  some  sign  of  this,  —  the  slightest  token. 
Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand  ! 

PEECIOSA. 

Nay,  come  no  nearer. 
The  words  I  utter  are  hs  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not  !     Be  not  deceived  ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  381 

The  love  wherewith  I  love  you  is  not  such 
As  you  would  offer  me.     For  you  come  here 
To  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I  have, 
My  honor.     You  are  wealthy,  you  have  friends 
And  kindred,  and  a  thousand  pleasant  hopes 
That  fill  your  heart  with  happiness  ;  but  I 
Am  poor,  and  friendless,  having  but  one  treasure. 
And  you  would  take  that  from  me,  and  for  what .'' 
To  flatter  your  own  vanity,  and  make  me 
"What  you  would  most  despise.    O  Sir,  such  love. 
That  seeks  to  harm  me,  cannot  be  true  love. 
Indeed  it  cannot.     But  my  love  for  you 
Is  of  a  different  kind.     It  seeks  your  good. 
It  is  a  holier  feeling.     It  rebukes 
Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste  desires, 
And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and  see 
How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in  you. 
And  grieve  your  soul  with  sin. 

LARA. 

I  swear  to  you, 


382  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

I  would  not  harm  you  ;  I  would  only  love  you. 
I  would  not  take  your  honor,  but  restore  it, 
And  in  return  I  ask  but  some  slight  mark 
Of  your  affection.     If  indeed  you  love  me. 
As  you  confess  you  do,  O  let  me  thus 

With  this  embrace 

VICTORIAN   (rushing  fonuard). 

Hold  !  hold  !    This  is  too  much. 
What  means  this  outrage  ? 

LARA. 

First,  what  right  have  you 
To  question  thus  a  nobleman  of  Spain  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

I  too  am  noble,  and  you  are  no  more  ! 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

LARA. 

Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when  the  wrong  of  others 
Gives  me  the  right ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  383 

PRECiosA  {to  Lara). 

Go  !  I  beseech  you,  go  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I  shall  have  business  with  you,  Count,  anon  ! 

LARA. 

You  cannot  come  too  soon  !  [Exit. 

PRECIOSA. 

Victorian  ! 

0  we  have  been  betrayed  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Ha  !  ha  !  betrayed  ! 
'T  is  I  have  been  betrayed,  not  we  !  —  not  we  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Dost  thou  imagine 

VICTORIAN. 

I  imagine  nothing  ; 

1  see  how  't  is  thou  whilest  the  time  away 
When  I  am  gone  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

O  speak  not  in  that  tone  ! 
It  wounds  me  deeply. 


384  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

VICTORIAN. 

'T  was  not  meant  to  flatter. 

PRECIOSA. 

Too  well  thou  know  est  the  presence  of  that  man 
Is  hateful  to  me  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet  I  saw  thee  stand 
And  listen  to  him,  when  he  told  his  love. 

PRECIOSA. 

I  did  not  heed  his  words. 

VICTORIAN, 

Indeed  thou  didst, 
And  answeredst  them  with  love. 

PRECIOSA. 

Hadst  thou  heard  all 


VICTORIAN. 


I  heard  enough. 


PRECIOSA. 

Be  not  so  angry  with  me. 

VICTORIAN. 

I  am  not  angry  ;  I  am  very  calm. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  385 

PRECIOSA. 

If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay,  say  no  more. 
I  know  too  much  already.     Thou  art  false  ! 
I  do  not  like  these  Gipsy  marriages ! 
Where  is  the  ring  I  gave  thee  .'' 

PRECIOSA. 

In  my  casket. 

VICTORIAN. 

There  let  it  rest !   I  would  not  have  thee  wear  it ! 
I  thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art  polluted  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I  call  the  Heavens  to  witness 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay,  nay,  nay  ! 
Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy  hps  ! 
They  are  forsworn  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Victorian  !  dear  Victorian  ! 
25 


386  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

VICTORIAN. 

I  gave  up  all  for  thee  ;  myself,  my  fame, 
My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul  ! 
x\nd  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  !     Now,  go  on  ! 
Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour, 
And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara's  knee, 
Say  what  a  poor,  fond  fool  Victorian  was  ! 
{He  casts  her  from  him  and  rushes  out.) 
PKECIOSA. 

And  this  from  thee  ! 

{Scene  closes.) 

SCENE     V. 
The  Count  of  Lara's  rooms.     Enter  the  Count. 

LARA. 

There  's  nothing  in  this  world  so  sweet  as  love, 
And  next  to  love  the  sweeiest  thing  is  hate  ! 
I  've  learned  to  hate,  and  therefore  am  revenged. 
A  silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 
The  fire  that  I  have  kindled 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         387 

{Enter  Francisco.) 

AVell,  Francisco, 
What  tidings  from  Don  Juan  ? 

FRANCISCO. 

Good,  my  lord  ; 
He  will  be  present. 

LARA. 

And  the  Duke  of  Lermos  .'' 

FRANCISCO. 

Was  not  at  home. 

LARA. 

How  with  the  rest .'' 

FRANCISCO. 

I  've  found 
The  men  you  wanted.     They  will  all  be  there, 
And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a  whirlwind 
Of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 
Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

LARA. 

Bravely  done. 


388         THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

Ah  !  little  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Preciosa, 
What  lies  in  wait  for  thee.     Sleep  shall  not  close 
Thine  eyes  this  night !     Give  me  my  cloak  and 
sword.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  VI. 

A  retired  spot  beyond  the  city  gates.     Enter  Victorian 
and  HypoLiTO. 

VICTOKIAN. 

O  shame  !  O  shame  !     Why  do  I  walk  abroad 
By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine  mocks  me, 
And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
Cry, "Hide  thyself"  !  O  what  a  thin  partition 
Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world  the  knowl- 
edge 
Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  darkness  ! 
Disgrace  has  many  tongues.     My  fears  are  win- 
dows. 
Through  which  all  eyes  seem  gazing.    Every  face 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  389 

Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame, 
And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Did  I  not  caution  thee  ?     Did  I  not  tell  thee 
I  was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

And  yet,  HypoHto,  we  may  be  wrong. 
We  may  be  over-hasty  in  condemning  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  cursed  villain. 

HYPOLITO. 

And  therefore  is  she  cursed,  loving  him. 

VICTORIAN. 

She  does  not  love  him  !     'T  is  for  gold !   for 
gold! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  public  streets 
He  shows  a  golden  ring  the  Gipsy  gave  him, 
A  serpent  with  a  ruby  in  its  mouth. 

VICTORIAN. 

She  had  that  ring  from  me  !     God  !  she  is  false  ! 


390  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

But  I  will  be  revenged  !     The  hour  is  passed. 
Where  stays  the  coward  ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Nay,  he  is  no  coward  ; 
A  villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a  coward. 
I  've  seen  him  play  with  swords  ;  it  is  his  pastime. 
And  therefore  be  not  over-confident, 
He  '11  task  thy  skill  anon.    Look,  here  he  comes. 
(Enter  Lara,  followed  by  Francisco.) 

LARA. 

Good  evening,  gentlemen. 

HYPOLITO. 

Good  evening.  Count. 

LARA. 

I  trust  I  have  not  kept  you  long  in  waiting. 

VICTORIAN. 

Not  long,  and  yet  too  long.     Are  you  prepared  } 

LARA. 

I  am. 

HYPOLITO. 

It  grieves  me  much  to  see  this  quarrel 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         391 

I 

Between  you,  gentlemen.     Is  there  no  way 

Left  open  to  accord  this  difference, 

But  you  must  make  one  with  your  swords  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

No  !  none  ! 
I  do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 
Stand  not  between  me  and  my  foe.     Too  Ions; 
Our  tongues  have  spoken.     Let  these  tongues  of 

steel 
End  our  debate.     Upon  your  guard,  Sir  Count ! 

{They  fight.     Victorian  disarms  the  Count.) 
Your  life  is  mine  ;  and  what  shall  now  withhold  me 
From  sending  your  vile  soul  to  its  account .'' 

LARA. 

Strike  !   strike  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

You  are  disarmed.    I  will  not  kill  you. 

I  will  not  murder  you.     Take  up  your  sword. 

(Francisco  hands  the  Count  his  sword,  and  Hypolito 

interfoscs.) 


392  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

HYPOLITO. 

Enough  !    Let  it  end  here  !    The  Count  of  Lara 
Has  shown  himself  a  brave  man,  and  Victorian 
A  generous  one,  as  ever.     Now  be  friends. 
Put  up  your  swords  ;  for,  to  speak  frankly  to  you, 
Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a  thing 
To  move  you  to  extremes. 

LARA. 

I  am  content. 
I  sought  no  quarrel.  A  few  hasty  words. 
Spoken  in  the  heat  of  blood,  have  led  to  this. 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay,  something  more  than  that. 

LARA. 

I  understand  you. 
Therein  I  did  not  mean  to  cross  your  path. 
To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 
But,  had  I  known  the  girl  belonged  to  you. 
Never  would  I  have  sought  to  win  her  from  you. 
The  truth  stands  now  revealed  ;  she  has  been  false 
To  both  of  us. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  393 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay,  false  as  hell  itself! 

LARA. 

In  truth  I  did  not  seek  her  ;  she  sought  me  ; 
And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 
The  hours  when  she  was  oftenest  left  alone. 

VICTORIAN. 

Say,  can  you  prove  this  to  me  ?     O,  pluck  out 
These  awful  doubts,  that  goad  me  into  madness  ! 
Let  me  know  all !  all  !  all  ! 

LARA. 

You  shall  know  all. 
Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 
Between  us.     Question  him.     Was  it  not  so, 
Francisco  ? 

FRANCISCO. 

Ay,  my  lord. 

LARA. 

If  farther  proof 
Is  needful,  I  have  here  a  ring  she  gave  me. 


394  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

VICTORIAN. 

Pray  let  me  see  that  ring  !     It  is  the  same  ! 

{Throws  it  upon  the  ground,  and  tramples  upon  it.) 
Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that  ring  ! 
Thus  do  I  spurn  her  from  me  ;  do  thus  trample 
Her  memory  in  the  dust  !     O  Count  of  Lara, 
We  both  have  been  abused,  been  much  abused  ! 
I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frankness. 
Though,  like  the  surgeon's  hand,  yours  gave  me 

pain, 
Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I  thank  you. 
I  now  can  see  the  folly  I  have  done, 
Though  't  is,  alas  !  too  late.      So  fare  you  well ' 
To-night  I  leave  this  hateful  town  for  ever. 
Regard  me  as  your  friend.    Once  more,  farewell ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

[Exeunt  Yictorian  and  Hypolito. 

LARA. 

Farewell  !  farewell ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  395 

Thus  have  I  cleared  the  field  of  my  worst  foe  ! 
I  have  none  else  to  fear  ;  the  fight  is  done, 
The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 

[Eocit  with  Francisco. 

SCENE   VII. 

A   lane  in   the  suburbs.      Night.     Enter   Cruzado   and 
Bartolome. 

CRUZADO. 

And  so,  Bartolome,  the  expedition  failed.    But 
where  wast  thou  for  the  most  part .'' 

BARTOLOME. 

In  the  Guadarrama  mountains,  near  San  Ilde- 
fonso. 

CRUZADO. 

And   thou   bringest  nothing  back  with  thee  .'' 
Didst  thou  rob  no  one  .'' 

BARTOLOME. 

There  was  no  one  to  rob,  save  a  party  of  stu- 


396  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

dents  from  Segovia,  who  looked  as  if  they  would 
rob  us  ;  and  a  jolly  little  friar,  who  had  noth- 
ing in  his  pockets  but  a  missal  and  a  loaf  of 
bread. 

CRUZADO. 

Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee  back  to  Madrid  ? 

BARTOLOME. 

First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee  here  ? 

CRUZADO. 

Preciosa. 

BARTOLOME. 

And  she  brings  me  back.     Hast  thou  forgotten 
thy  promise  .'' 

CRUZADO. 

The  two  years  are  not  passed  yet.     Wait  pa- 
tiently.    The  girl  shall  be  thine. 

BARTOLOME. 

I  hear  she  has  a  Busne  lover. 

CRUZADO. 

That  is  nothing. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  397 

BARTOLOME. 

I  do  not  like  it.  I  hate  him,  —  the  son  of  a 
Busne  harlot.  He  goes  in  and  out,  and  speaks 
with  her  alone,  and  I  must  stand  aside,  and  wait 
his  pleasure. 

CRTJZADO, 

Be  patient,  I  say.     Thou  shalt  have  thy  re 
venge.     When  the  time  comes,  thou  shalt  way- 
lay him. 

BARTOLOME. 

Meanwhile,  show  me  her  house. 

CRUZADO. 

Come  this  way.  But  thou  wilt  not  find  her. 
She  dances  at  the  play  to-night. 

BARTOLOME. 

No  matter.     Show  me  the  house.  [Exeunt. 


398         THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


SCENE  VIII. 

The  Theatre.  The  orchestra  plays  the  cachucha.  Sound 
of  castanets  behind  the  scenes.  The  curtain  rises,  and 
discovers  Preciosa  in  the  attitude  of  commencing  the 
dance.  The  cachucha.  Tumult;  hisses;  cries  of  ^' Bra- 
va!^'  and  '^  Afuera!"  She  falters  and  pauses.  The 
music  stops.     General  confusion.     Preciosa  faints. 


SCENE  IX. 

The  Count  of  Lara's  chambers.     Lara  and  his  friends 

at  supper. 

LARA. 

So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many  thanks  ! 
You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this  matter. 
Pray  jSll  your  glasses. 

DON    JUAN. 

Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis, 
How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the  noise  began, 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  399 

And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eyes  dilated  ! 
Her  nostrils  spread  !  her  lips  apart !  her  bosom 
Tumultuous  as  the  sea  ! 

DON    LUIS. 

t 

I  pitied  her. 

LARA. 

Her  pride  is  humbled  ;  and  this  very  night 
I  mean  to  visit  her. 

DON    JtTAN. 

Will  you  serenade  her  .'' 

LARA. 

No  music  !  no  more  music  ! 

DON    LUIS. 

Why  not  music  } 
It  softens  many  hearts. 

LARA. 

Not  in  the  humor 
She  now  is  in.     Music  would  madden  her. 

DON    JUAN. 

Try  golden  cymbals. 


400  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

DON    LUIS. 

Yes,  try  Don  Dinero  ; 
A  mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero. 

LAKA. 

To  tell  the  truth,  then,  I  have  bribed  her  maid. 
But,  Caballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 
A  bumper  and  away  ;  for  the  night  wears. 
A  health  to  Preciosa  ! 

(  They  rise  and  drink.) 
ALL. 

Preciosa. 
LARA  {holding  up  Ins  glass) . 
Thou  bright  and  flaming  minister  of  Love  ! 
Thou  wonderful  magician  !  who  hast  stolen 
My  secret  from  me,  and  mid  sighs  of  passion 
Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery  tongue. 
Her  precious  name  !     O  never  more  henceforth 
Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine  ;  and  never  more 
A  mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 
Go  !  keep  my  secret ! 

(Drinlis  and  dashes  the  goblet  down.) 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  401 

DON    JUAN. 

Ite  !  missa  est ! 
{Scene  closes.) 

SCENE  X. 

Street  and  garden  wall.     Night.     Enter  Cruzado  and 
Bartolome. 

CRUZADO. 

This  is  the  garden  wail,  and  above  it,  yonder, 
is  her  house.  The  window  in  which  thou  seest 
the  Hght  is  her  window.  But  we  will  not  go  in 
now. 

BARTOLOBIE. 

Why  not  } 

CRUZADO. 

Because  she  is  not  at  home. 

BAKTOLOME. 

No  matter  ;    we  can  wait.     But  how  is  this  .-' 
The  gate  is  boiled.      {Sound  of  guitars  and  voices  in 
26 


402         THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

a  neighbouring  street.)     Hark  !     There  comes  her 
lover  wilh  his  infernal  serenade  !     Hark  ! 

SONG. 
Good  night !     Good  night,  beloved  ! 

I  come  to  watch  o'er  tliee  ! 
To  be  near  thee,  —  to  be  near  thee, 

Alone  is  peace  for  me. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  of  morning, 

Thy  lips  are  crimson  flowers ! 
Good  night !     Good  night,  beloved, 

While  I  count  the  weary  hours. 

CRUZADO. 

They  are  not  coming  this  way. 

BARTOLOME. 

Wait,  they  begin  again. 

SONG  {coming  nearer). 
Ah  '  thou  moon  that  shinest 

Argent-clear  above ! 
All  night  long  enlighten 

My  sweet  lady-love ! 

Moon  that  shinest. 
All  night  long  enlighten ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  40 


o 


BARTOLOBIE. 

Woe  be  to  him,  if  he  comes  this  way ! 

CRUZADO. 

Be  quiet,  they  are  passing  down  the  street. 

SONG    {dying  aicay). 
The  nuns  in  the  cloister 

Sang  to  each  other  ; 
For  so  many  sisters 

Is  there  not  one  brother  ! 
Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mother  ! 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge  ! 
Puss!  puss!  puss! 

BARTOLOME. 

Follow  that !    follow   that !     Come   with   me. 
Puss  !  puss  ! 

{Exeunt.     On  the  opposite  side  enter  the  Count  of  Lara 
and  gentlemen,  with  Francisco.) 

LARA. 

The  gate  is  fast.     Over  the  wall,  Francisco, 
And  draw  the  bolt.    There,  so,  and  so,  and  over. 
Now,  gentlemen,  come  m,  and  help  me  scale 


404  THE   SPAxXlSK   STUDENT. 

Yon  balcony.     How  now  ?    Her  light  still  burns. 
Move  warily.     Make  fast  the  gate,  Francisco. 
{Exeunt.     Reenter  Cruzxdo  and  Bahtolome.) 
BARTOLOBIE. 

They  went  in  at  the  gate.    Hark  !  I  hear  them 
in   the   garden.      {Tries  the  gate.)     Bolted  again  ! 
Vive  Cristo  !     Follow  me  over  the  wall. 
( Tlicy  climb  the  wall. ) 


SCENE  XL 

Preciosa's  bed-chamber.     Midnight.     She  is  sleeping  in 
an  arm-chair,  in  an  undress.     Dolores  ivatching  her. 

DOLOKES. 

She  sleeps  at  last  ! 

{Opens  the  window  and  listens.) 

All  silent  in  the  street. 
And  in  the  garden.     Hark  ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         405 

PRECIOSA  (in  her  sleep). 

I  must  go  hence  ! 

Give  me  my  cloak  ! 

DOLORES. 

He  comes  !    1  hear  his  footsteps  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Go  tell  them  that  I  cannot  dance  to-night ; 
I  am  too  ill !     Look  at  me  !     See  the  fever 
That  burns  upon  my  cheek  !     I  must  go  hence. 
I  am  too  weak  to  dance. 

(Signal  from  the  garden.) 

DOLORES   {from  the  ivindow). 

Who  's  there  ? 

VOICE   [from  below). 

A  friend. 

DOLORES. 

I  will  undo  the  door.     Wait  till  I  come. 

PRECIOSA. 

I  must  go  hence.      I  pray  you  do  not  harm  me  ! 
Shame  !  shame  !  to  treat  a  feeble  woman  thus  ! 


406  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

Be  you  but  kind,  I  will  do  all  things  for  you. 
I  'm  ready  now,  — give  me  my  castanets. 
Where  is  Victorian  ?     Oh,  those  hateful  lamps  ! 
They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 
I  cannot  stay.     Hark  !  how  they  mock  at  me  ! 
They  hiss  at  me  hke  serpents  !   Save  me  !  save  me ! 

(She  ivahes.) 
How  late  is  it,  Dolores  .'' 

DOLORES. 

It  is  midnight. 

PRECIOSA. 

We  must  be  patient.    Smooth  this  pillow  for  nie. 
{She  sleeps  again.     Noise  from  the  garden,  and  voices.) 

VOICE. 

Muera  ! 

ANOTHER    VOICE. 

O  villains  !   villains  ! 

LARA. 

So  !  have  at  you  ! 

VOICE. 

Take  that ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  407 

LARA. 

O,  I  ain  wounded  ! 
DOLORES   {shutting  the  windoto). 

Jesu  Maria  ! 


408  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  A  cross-road  through  a  ivood.  In  the  back- 
ground a  distant  village  spire.  Victorian  and  Hypo- 
LlTO,  as  travelling  students,  with  guitars,  sitting  under 
the  trees.     Hypolito  plays  and  sings. 

SONG. 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Enemy 
Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue ! 

Most  untrue 
To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee. 

Woe  is  me  ! 
The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah,  Love ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his  shuttle, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         409 

Is  ever  weaving  into  life's  dull  warp 
Bright,  gorgeous  flowers  and  scenes  Arcadian  ; 
Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries,  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thinking  to  walk  in  those  Arcadian  pastures, 
Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against  the  wall. 

SONG   (^continued). 

Thy  deceits 
Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 
All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets  ! 

They  are  cheats. 
Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love ! 

VICTORIAN. 

A  very  pretty  song.     I  thank  thee  for  it. 

HYPOLITO. 

It  suits  thy  case. 


410  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed,  I  think  it  does. 
What  wise  man  wrote  it .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Lopez  Maldonado. 

VICTORIAN. 

In  truth,  a  pretty  song. 

HYPOLITO. 

With  much  truth  in  it. 
I  hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ;  and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 

VICTORIAN. 

I  will  forget  her  !     All  dear  recollections 
Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a  book, 
Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds  ! 
I  will  forget  her  !     But  perhaps  hereafter. 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the  world, 
A  voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name. 
And  she  will  say,  "  He  was  indeed  my  friend  !  " 
O,  would  T  were  a  soldier,  not  a  scholar. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         411 

That  the  loud  march,  the  deafenhig  beat  of  drums, 
The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated  trumpet, 
The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the  storm. 
And  a  swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf  for  ever 
To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foohsh  heart ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Then  let  that  foolish  heart  upbraid  no  more  ! 
To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  will  to  conquer. 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 

I  throw  into  Oblivion's  sea  the  sword 

That  pierces  me  ;  for,  like  Excahbar, 

With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  v\ill  not  sink. 

There  rises  from  below  a  hand  that  grasps  it, 

And  waves  it  in  the  air  ;  and  wailing  voices 

Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

HYPOLITO. 

And  yet  at  last 
Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 
This  is  not  well.     In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 


412  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 
To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life's  burden, 
Like  a  dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the  wheels. 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health 
To  talk  of  dying, 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet  I  fain  would  die  ! 
To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved  ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still  ;  that  longing,  that  wild  impulse, 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not 
And  cannot  have  ;  the  effort  to  be  strong  ; 
And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile. 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks ; 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not,  —  the  dead  alone  ! 
Would  I  were  with  them  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

We  shall  all  be  soon. 

VICTORIAN. 

It  cannot  be  too  soon  ;  for  I  am  weary 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  413 

Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 

Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as 

strangers  ; 
Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts  ; 
And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 
Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and  beckons, 
And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave  us 
A  mockery  and  a  jest ;  maddened,  — confused,  — 
Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 

HYPOLITO. 

Why  seek  to  know  ? 
Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 
Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself. 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

VICTORIAN. 

I  confess, 
That  were  the  wiser  part.     But  Hope  no  longer 
Comforts  my  soul.     I  am  a  wretched  man. 
Much  like  a  poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat, 


414  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut  off, 
And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 
Helpless  and  hopeless  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 
The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salvation. 
Above  thy  head,  through  rifted  clouds,  there  shines 
A  glorious  star.     Be  patient.      Trust  thy  star  ! 
{Sound  of  a  village  bell  in  the  distance.) 
VICTORIAN. 

Ave  Maria  !     I  hear  the  sacristan 

Ringing  the  chimes  from  yonder  village  belfry  ! 

A  solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and  wide 

Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages. 

And  bids  the  laboring  hind  a-field,  the  shepherd. 

Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer, 

And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets,  stand  still, 

And  breathe  a  prayer  unto  the  blessed  Virgin  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Amen  !  amen  !     Not  half  a  league  from  hence 
The  village  hes. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  415 

VICTORIAN. 

This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 
Over  the  wheat  fields,  where  the  shadows  sail 
Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now  blue, 
And,  hke  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main. 
Whistles  the  quail.     Come,  let  us  hasten  on. 

[Exevnt. 

SCENE  n. 

Public  square  in  the  village  of  Guadarrama.  The  Ave 
Maria  still  tolling.  A  crowd  of  villagers,  with  their 
hats  in  their  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  In  front,  a  group 
of  Gipsies.  The  bell  rings  a  merrier  peal.  A  Gipsy 
dance.     Enter  Pancho,  follotved  by  Pedro  Crespo. 

PANCHO. 

Make  room,  ye  vagabonds  and  Gipsy  thieves  ! 
INIake  room  for  the  Alcalde  and  for  me  ! 

PEDRO    CEESPO. 

Keep  silence  all  !     I  have  an  edict  here 

From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King  of  Spain, 


416  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 
Which  I  shall  publish  in  the  market-place. 
Open  your  ears  and  listen  ' 

{Enter  the  Padre  Cura  at  the  door  of  his  cottage.) 

Padre  Cura, 
Good  day  !  and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict  read. 

PADRE    CURA. 

Good  day,  and  God  be  with  you !     Pray,  what 
is  it  ? 

PEDRO    CRESPO. 

An  act  of  banishment  against  the  Gipsies  ! 
(Agitation  and  murmurs  in  the  crowd.) 

PANCHO. 

Silence ! 

PEDRO  CRESPO   {reads). 
"  I  hereby  order  and  command, 
That  the  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  strangers, 
Known  by  the  name  of  Gipsies,  shall  henceforth 
Be  banished  from  the  realm,  as  vagabonds 
And  beggars  ;  and  if,  after  seventy  days, 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  417 

Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom's  bounds, 
They  shall  receive  a  hundred  lashes  each ; 
The  second  time,  shall  have  their  ears  cut  off; 
The  third,  be  slaves  for  life  to  him  who  takes  them, 
Or  burnt  as  heretics.      Signed,  I,  the  King." 
Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbaptized  ! 
You  hear  the  law  !     Obey  and  disappear  ! 

PANCHO. 

And  if  in  seventy  days  you  are  not  gone. 

Dead  or  alive  I  make  you  all  my  slaves. 

{The  Gipsies  go  out  in  confusion,  shelving  signs  of  fear 
and  discontent.     Pancho  foUoivs.) 

PADRE    CURA. 

A  righteous  law  !     A  very  righteous  law  ! 
Pray  you,  sit  down. 

PEDRO    CRESPO. 

I  thank  you  heartily. 

{They  seat  themselves  on  a  bench  at  the  Padre  Cura's 
door.  Sound  of  guitars  heard  at  a  distance,  approach- 
ing during  the  dialogue  which  follows.) 

27 


418  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

A  very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say. 

Now  tell  me,  Padre  Cura, — you  know  all  things, — 

How  came  these  Gipsies  into  Spain  ? 

PADKE    CURA. 

Why,  look  you  ; 
They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 
And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants.  Sir  Alcalde, 
As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 
And,  look  you,  as  Fray  JaymeBleda  says, 
There  are  a  hundred  marks  to  prove  a  INIoor 
Is  not  a  Christian,  so  't  is  with  the  Gipsies. 
They  never  marry,  never  go  to  mass. 
Never  baptize  their  children,  nor  keep  Lent, 
Nor  see  the  inside  of  a  church,  —  nor  —  nor  — 

PEDRO    CRESPO. 

Good  reasons,  good,  substantial  reasons  all ! 
No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 
They  should  be  burnt,  I  see  it  plain  enough. 
They  should  be  burnt. 

(Enter  Victorian  a7id  Hypolito  playing.) 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  419 

PADRE    CUKA. 

And  pray,  whom  have  we  here  ? 

PEDRO  CKESPO. 

More  vagrants!   By  Saint  Lazarus,  more  vagrants! 

HYPOLITO. 

Good  evening,  gentlemen  !    Is  this  Guadarrama  ? 

PADRE    CXTRA. 

Yes,  Guadarrama,  and  good  evening  to  you. 

HYPOLITO. 

We  seek  the  Padre  Cura  of  the  village  ; 

And,  judging  from  your  dress  and  reverend  mien, 

You  must  be  he. 

PADRE    CURA. 

I  am.    Pray,  what 's  your  pleasure  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

We  are  poor  students,  travelling  in  vacation. 
You  know  this  mark  ? 

{Touching  the  ivooden  spoon  in  his  hat-band.) 
PADEE    CURA    {joxj fully). 

Ay,  know  it,  and  have  worn  it. 


420  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

PEDKO   CRESPO    (aside). 
Soup-eaters !  by  the  mass !    The  worst  of  vagrants ! 
And  there  's  no  law  against  them.    Sir,  your  ser- 
vant. [Exit. 

PADRE    CURA. 

Your  servant,  Pedro  Crespo. 

HYPOLITO. 

Padre  Cura, 
From  the  first  moment  1  beheld  your  face, 
I  said  within  myself,  "  This  is  the  man !  " 
There  is  a  certain  something  in  your  looks, 
A  certain  scholar-hke  and  studious  something,  — 
You  understand,  —  which  cannot  be  mistaken  ; 
Which  marks  you  as  a  very  learned  man. 
In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

VICTORIAN   (aside). 

What  impudence  ' 

HYPOLITO. 

As  we  approached,  I  said  to  my  companion, 
"  That  is  the  Padre  Cura  ;  mark  my  words  !  " 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  421 

Meaning  your  Grace.    "  The  other  man,"  said  I, 
"  Who  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench, 
Must  be  the  sacristan." 

PADRE    CURA. 

Ah  !  said  you  so  ? 
Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Indeed  !   you  much  astonish  me  !     His  air 
Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde's  should  be. 

PADRE    CURA. 

That  is  true. 
He  is  out  of  humor  with  some  vagrant  Gipsies, 
Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neighbourhood 
There  is  nothing  so  undignified  as  anger. 

HTPOLITO. 

The  Padre  Cura  will  excuse  our  boldness, 
If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality, 
We  crave  a  lodging  for  the  night. 


422  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

PADRE    CURA. 

I  pray  you ! 
You  do  me  honor  !     I  am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble  roof. 
It  is  not  often  that  I  have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars  ;  and  EmoUit  mores, 
Jfec  sinit  esse  feros,  Cicero  says. 

HYPOLITO. 

'T  is  Ovid,  is  it  not  ? 

PADRE    CtTRA. 

No,  Cicero. 

HYPOLITO. 

Your  Grace  is  right.    You  are  the  better  scholar. 
Noiv  what  a  dunce  was  I  to   think    it    Ovid  ! 
But  hang  me  if  it  is  not !     (Aside.) 

PADRE    CURA. 

Pass  this  way. 
He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Pray  you,  go  in,  go  in  !  no  ceremony.      [Exeunt. 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  423 


SCENE  m. 

A  room  in  the  Padre  Cura's  house.     Enter  the  Padre 
and  Hypolito. 

PADRE    CURA. 

So  then,  Senor,  you  come  from  Alcala. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     It  was  there  I  studied. 

HYPOLITO. 

And  left  behind  an  honored  name,  no  doubt. 
How  may  I  call  your  Grace  .'' 

PADKE    CURA. 

Geronimo 
De  Santillana,  at  your  Honor's  service. 

HYPOLITO. 

Descended  from  the  Marquis  Santillana  } 
From  the  distinguished  poet .'' 

PADKE    CURA. 

From  the  Marquis, 
Not  from  the  poet. 


424  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 

HYPOLITO. 

Why,  they  were  the  same. 
Let  me  embrace  you  !     O  some  lucky  star 
Has  brought  me  hither  !    Yet  once  more  !  —  once 

more  ! 
Your  name  is  ever  green  in  Alcala, 
And  our  professor,  when  we  are  unruly. 
Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say,  "  Alas  ! 
It  was  not  so  in  Santillana's  time  !  " 

PADRE    CURA. 

I'did  not  think  my  name  remembered  there. 

HYPOLITO. 

More  than  remembered  ;  it  is  idoHzed. 

PADEE    CURA. 

Of  what  professor  speak  you  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Timoneda. 

PADRE    CURA. 

I  don't  remember  any  Timoneda. 

HYPOLITO. 

A  grave  and  sombre  man,  whose  beethng  brow 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         425 

O'erhangs  the  rushing  current  of  his  speech 

As  rocks  o'er  rivers  hang.     Have  you  forgotten? 

PADRE    CURA. 

Indeed,  I  have.     O,  those  were  pleasant  days, 
Those  college  days  !     I  ne'er  shall  see  the  hke  ! 
1  had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes  ! 
I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends  ! 
I  've  turned  my  back  on  what  was  then  before  me  ; 
And  the  bright  faces  of  my  young  companions 
Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no  more. 
Do  you  remember  Cueva  .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Cueva  .''   Cueva  ? 

PADRE    CURA. 

Fool  that  I  am  !     He  was  before  your  time. 
You  're  a  mere  boy,  and  I  am  an  old  man. 

HYPOLITO. 

I  should  not  like  to  try  my  strength  with  you. 

PADRE    CURA. 

Well,  well.     But  I  forget  ;  you  must  be  hungry. 
Martina  !  ho  !  Martina  !     'T  is  my  niece. 


426  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

{Enter  Martina.) 

HYPOLITO. 

You  may  be  proud  of  such  a  niece  as  that. 
1  wish  I  had  a  niece.     Emollit  mores.      (Aside.) 
He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

MARTINA. 

Servant,  sir. 

PADRE    CURA. 

This  gentleman  is  hungry.      See  thou  to  it. 
Let  us  have  supper. 

MARTINA. 

'T  will  be  ready  soon. 

PADRE    CURA. 

And  bring  a  bottle  of  my  Val-de-Penas 

Out  of  the  cellar.      Stay  ;  I  '11  go  myself. 

Pray  you,  Seaor,  excuse  me.  [Emi. 

HYPOLITO. 

Hist!  Martina! 
One  word  with  you.     Bless  me  !  what  handsome 
eyes  ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  427 

To-day  there  have  been  Gipsies  in  the  village. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

MARTINA. 

There  have  been  Gipsies  here. 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes,  and  they  told  your  fortune. 

MARTINA  {embarrassed). 

Told  my  fortune .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  they  did.    Give  me  your  hand. 
I  '11  tell  you  what  they  said.     They  said,  —  they 

said, 
The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a  clown. 
And  him  you  should  not  marry.     Was  it  not  ^ 

MARTINA   {surprised.) 
How  know  you  that .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

O,  I  know  more  than  that. 
What  a  soft,  little  hand  !     And  then  they  said, 
A  cavalier  from  court,  handsome,  and  tall 


428  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.        | 

And  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry  you, 

And  you  should  be  a  lady.     Was  it  not  ? 

He  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 

{Tries  to  kiss  her.     She  runs  off.     Enter  Victorixn,  ivith 

a  letter.) 

VICTOKIAN. 

The  muleteer  has  come. 

HYPOLITO. 

So  soon  .'' 

VICTORIAN. 

I  found  him 
Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern  door, 
And,  from  a  pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm's  length,  drinking  the  blood-red 
wine. 

HYPOLITO. 

What  news  from  Court  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

He  brought  this  letter  only.     (Reads.) 
O  cursed  perfidy  !     Why  did  I  let 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  429 

That  lying  tongue  deceive  me  !    Preciosa, 
Sweet  Preciosa  !  how  art  thou  avenged  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

What  news  is  this,  that  makes  thy  cheek  tiu-n 

pale, 
And  thy  hand  tremhle  ? 

VICTOEIAN. 

O,  most  infamous ! 
The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  damned  villain  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

VICTORIAN. 

He  strove  in  vain 
To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 
The  love  of  Preciosa.     Not  succeeding, 
He  swore  to  be  revenged  ;  and  set  on  foot 
A  plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 
She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the  stage. 
Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 
Too  foul  to  speak  of;  and,  once  more  a  beggar, 


430  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

She  roams  a  wanderer  over  God's  green  earth, 
Housing  with  Gipsies ! 

HYPOLITO. 

To  renew  again 
The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd  swains 
Desperate  with  love,  like  Gaspar  Gil's  Diana. 
Redit  et  Virgo ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Dear  Hypolito, 
How  have  I  wronged  that  meek,  confiding  heart ! 
I  will  go  seek  for  her  ;  and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  I  've  done  her  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

O  beware  ! 
Act  not  that  folly  o'er  again. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay,  folly. 
Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wih, 
I  will  confess  my  weakness,  —  I  still  love  her  ! 
Still  fondly  love  her  ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  431 

{Enter  the  Padre  Cura.) 

HVPOLITO. 

Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 
Who  are  these  Gipsies  in  the  neighbourhood  ? 

PADRE    CURA. 

Beltran  Cruzado  and  his  crew. 

VICTORIAN. 

Kind  Heaven, 
I  thank  thee  !     She  is  found  !  is  found  again  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

And  have  they  with  them  a  pale,  beautiful  girl, 
Called  Preciosa  .'' 

PADRE    CURA. 

Ay,  a  pretty  girl. 
The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes,  moved  with  hunger  ; 
He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day's  journey. 

PADRE    CURA. 

Then,  pray  you,   come  this  way.      The  supper 
waits.  [Exeunt. 


432  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  post-house  on  the  road  to  Segovia,  not  far  from  the  vil- 
lage of  Guadarrama.  Enter  Chispa,  cracking  a  xvhip, 
and  singing  the  Cachucha. 

CHISPA. 

Halloo  !  Don  Fulano  !  Let  us  have  horses, 
and  quickly.  Alas,  poor  Chispa  !  what  a  dog's 
life  dost  thou  lead  !  I  thought,  when  I  left  my 
old  master  Victorian,  the  student,  to  serve  my 
new  master  Don  Carlos,  the  gentleman,  that  I, 
too,  should  lead  the  life  of  a  gentleman  ;  should 
go  to  bed  early,  and  get  up  late.  For  when  the 
abbot  plays  cards,  what  can  you  expect  of  the 
friars  .''  But,  in  running  away  from  the  thunder, 
I  have  run  into  the  lightning.  Here  I  am  in  hot 
chase  after  my  master  and  his  Gipsy  girl.  And 
a  good  beginning  of  the  week  It  is,  as  he  said 
who  was  hanged  on  Monday  morning. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  433 

(Enter  Don  Carlos.) 

DON    CARLOS. 

Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  ? 

CHISPA. 

I  should  think  not,  for  the  hostler  seems  to  be 
asleep.  Ho  !  within  there  !  Horses  !  horses  ! 
horses  !  (He  knocks  at  the  gate  with  his  whip,  and  enter 
Mosquito,  putting  on  his  jacket.) 

MOSQUITO. 

Pray,  have  a  little  patience.    I  'm  not  a  musket. 

CHISPA. 

Health  and  pistareens  !  I  'm  glad  to  see  you 
come  on  dancing,  padre  !    Pray,  what 's  the  news  .'' 

MOSQUITO. 

You  cannot  have  fresh  horses  ;  because  there 
are  none. 

CHISPA. 

Cachiporra !  Throw  that  bone  to  another  dog. 
Do  I  look  like  your  aunt .'' 

MOSQUITO. 

No  ;  she  has  a  beard. 
28 


434  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

CHISPA. 

Go  to  !  go  to  ! 

MOSQUITO. 

Are  you  from  Madrid  ? 

CHISPA. 

Yes  ;  and  going  to  Estramadura.    Get  us  horses. 

MOSQUITO. 

What  's  the  news  at  Court .'' 

CHISPA. 

Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that  I  am  going  to  set 
up  a  coach,  and  I  have  already  bought  the  whip. 
{Strikes  him  round  the  legs.) 
MOSQUITO. 

Oh  !  oh  !  you  hurt  me  ! 

DON    CAKLOS. 

Enough  of  this  folly.  Let  us  have  horses. 
{Gives  money  to  Mosquito.)  It  is  almost  dark  ;  and 
we  are  in  haste.  But  tell  me,  has  a  band  of  Gip- 
sies passed  this  way  of  late  .'' 

MOSQUITO. 

Yes  ;  and  they  are  still  in  the  neighbourhood. 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  435 

DON    CARLOS. 

And  where  } 

MOSQUITO. 

Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the  woods  near 
Guadarrama.  [Exii. 

DON    CARLOS. 

Now  this  is  lucky.     We  will  visit  the  Gipsy 
camp. 

CHISPA. 

Are  you  not  afraid  of  the  evil   eye  .''     Have 
you  a  stag's  horn  with  you  ? 

DON    CARLOS. 

Fear  not.    We  will  pass  the  night  at  the  village. 

CHISPA. 

And  sleep  like  the  Squires  of  Hernan  Daza, 
nine  under  one  blanket. 

DON    CARLOS. 

I  hope  we  may  find  the  Preciosa  among  them. 

CHISPA. 

Among  the  Squires  ? 


436  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

DON    CARLOS. 

No  ;  among  the  Gipsies,  blockhead  ! 

CHISPA. 

I  hope  we  may ;  for  we  are  giving  ourselves 
trouble  enough  on  her  account.  Don't  you  think 
so  .''  However,  there  is  no  catching  trout  without 
wetting  one's  trowsers.    Yonder  come  the  horses. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

The  Chpsy  camp  in  the  forest.     Night.     Gipsies  working 
at  a  forge.     Others  playing  cards  by  the  fire-light. 

GIPSIES  (at  the  forge  sing). 
On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand, 
With  a  crown  of  red  gold  in  my  hand, 
Wild  Moors  come  trooping  over  the  lea, 
0  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee,  flee,  flee? 
O  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee  1 

FIRST  GIPSY   (playing). 
Down  with  your  John-Dorados,  my  pigeon. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         437 

Down  with  your  John-Dorados,  and  let  us  make 
an  end. 

GIPSIES   {at  the  forge  sing). 
Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran  ; 
God  send  the  Gipsy  lassie  here, 

And  not  the  Gipsy  man. 

FIRST  GIPSY  {playing). 
There  you  are  in  your  morocco  J 

SECOND   GIPSY. 

One  more  game.    The  Alcalde's  doves  against 
the  Padre  Cura's  new  moon. 

FIRST    GIPSY. 

Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

GIPSIES   {at  the  forge  sing). 
At  midnight,  when  the  moon  began 

To  show  her  silver  flame, 
There  came  to  him  no  Gipsy  man, 

The  Gipsy  lassie  came. 

{Enter  Beltran  Cruzado.) 


433  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

CRUZADO. 

Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and  Rastilleros  ; 
leave  work,  leave  play ;  listen  to  your  orders  fpr 
the  night.  (Speaking  to  the  right.)  You  will  get 
you  to  the  village,  mark  you,  by  the  stone  cross. 

GIPSIES. 

Ay! 

CRtTZADO    (to  the  left). 
And  you,  by  the  pole  with  the  hermit's  head 
upon  it. 

GIPSIES. 

Ay! 

CRUZADO. 

As  soon  as  you  see  the  planets  are  out,  in  with 
you,  and  be  busy  with  the  ten  commandments, 
under  the  sly,  and  Saint  Martin  asleep.  D'  ye 
hear  .'' 

GIPSIES. 

Ay! 

CRUZADO. 

Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and,  if  you  see  a 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         439 

goblin  or  a  papagayo,  take  to  your  trampers. 
"Vineyards  and  Dancing  John"  is  the  word. 
Am  I  comprehended  ? 

GIPSIES. 

Ay  !  ay  ! 

CRUZADO. 

Away,  then  ! 
(Exeunt  severally.     Cruzado  walks  up  the  stage,  and  dis- 
appears among  the  trees.     Enter  Preciosa.) 

PRECIOSA. 

How  strangely  gleams  through  the  gigantic  trees 
The  red  light  of  the  forge  !     Wild,   beckoning 

shadows 
Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising  and  bending  with  the  flickering  flame. 
Then  flitting  into  darkness  !     So  within  me 
Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to  each  other, 
My  brightest  hopes  giving  dark  fears  a  being 
As  the  light  does  the  shadow.     Woe  is  me  ! 
How  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how  lonely  ! 


440  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

(Bartolome  rushes  in.) 

BARTOLOME. 

Ho  !  Preciosa  ! 

PRECIOSA, 

O,  Bartolome  ! 
Thou  here  ? 

BARTOLOME. 

Lo  !  I  am  here. 

PRECIOSA. 

Whence  comest  thou  } 

BARTOLOME. 

From  the  rough  ridges  of  the  wild  Sierra, 
From  caverns  in  the  rocks,  from  hunger,  thirst. 
And  fever  !     Like  a  wild  wolf  to  the  sheepfold 
Come  I  for  thee,  my  lamb. 

PRECIOSA. 

O  touch  me  not ! 
The  Count  of  Lara's  blood  is  on  thy  hands  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara's  curse  is  on  thy  soul  ! 
Do  not  come  near  me!    Pray,  begone  from  here  ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         441 

Thou  art  in  danger  !     They  have  set  a  price 
Upon  thy  head  ! 

BAETOLOME. 

Ay,  and  I  've  wandered  long 
Among  the  mountains  ;  and  for  many  days 
Have  seen  no  human  face,  save  the  rough  swine- 
herd's. 
The  wind  and  rain  have  been  my  sole  companions. 
I  shouted  to  them  from  the  rocks  thy  name, 
And  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me, 
Till  I  grew  mad.     I  could  not  stay  from  thee, 
And  I  am  here  !     Betray  me,  if  thou  wilt. 

PRECIOSA. 

Betray  thee  ?     I  betray  thee  ? 

BARTOLOME. 

Preciosa  ! 
I  come  for  thee  !  for  thee  I  thus  brave  death  ! 
Fly  with  me  o'er  the  borders  of  this  realm  ! 
Fly  with  me  ! 


442  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

PRECIOSA. 

Speak  of  that  no  more.    I  cannot. 
I  am  thine  no  longer. 

BARTOLOME. 

O,  recall  the  time 
When  we  were   children  !    how  we  played   to- 
gether, 
How  we  grew  up  together  ;  how  we  plighted 
Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in  childhood ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  has  come. 
I  am  hunted  from  the  kingdom,  like  a  wolf ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise. 

PRECIOSA.  • 

'T  was  my  father's  promise, 
Not  mine.     I  never  gave  my  heart  to  thee, 
Nor  promised  thee  my  hand  ! 

BARTOLOME. 

False  tongue  of  woman  ! 
And  heart  more  false  ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  443 

PRECIOSA. 

Nay,  listen  unto  me. 
I  will  speak  frankly.     I  have  never  loved  thee  ; 
I  cannot  love  thee.      This  is  not  my  fault, 
It  is  my  destiny.      Thou  art  a  man 
Restless  and  violent.    What  wouldst  thou  with  me, 
A  feeble  girl,  who  have  not  long  to  live. 
Whose  heart  is  broken  ?     Seek  another  wife, 
Better  than  I,  and  fairer  ;  and  let  not 
Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange  her  from 

thee. 
Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  passion. 
I  never  sought  thy  love  ;  never  did  aught 
To  make  thee  love  me.     Yet  I  pity  thee. 
And  most  of  all  I  pity  thy  wild  heart. 
That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds  of  blood. 
Beware,  beware  of  that. 

BAETOLOME. 

For  thy  dear  sake, 
I  will  be  gentle.     Thou  shalt  teach  me  patience. 


444  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

PRECIOSA. 

Then  take  this  farewell,  and  depart  in  peace. 
Thou  must  not  linger  here. 

BARTOLOBIE. 

Come,  come  with  me. 

PRECIOSA. 

Hark  !    I  hear  footsteps. 

BARTOLOME. 

I  entreat  thee,  come  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Away  !     It  is  in  vain. 

BARTOLOME. 

Wilt  thou  not  come  .'' 

PRECIOSA. 

Never ! 

BARTOLOME. 

Then  woe,  eternal  woe,  upon  thee  ! 
Thou  shalt  not  be  another's.     Thou  shalt  die. 

[Exit. 

PRECIOSA. 

All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this  hour ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  445 

Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon  me  ! 
Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me  ! 
Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  me ! 
Yet  why  should  I  fear  death  ?     What  is  it  to 

die? 
To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sorrow, 
To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  unkindness, 
All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 
And  be  at  rest  for  ever  !     O,  dull  heart. 
Be  of  good  cheer  !     When  thou  shalt  cease  to 

beat, 
Then  shalt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  complain  ! 
{Enter  Victorian  and  Hypolito  behind.) 

VICTORIAN. 

'T  is  she  !     Behold,  how  beautiful  she  stands 
Under  the  tent-like  trees  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

A  woodland  nymph  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I  pray  thee,  stand  aside.     Leave  me. 


446  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

HYPOLITO. 

Be  wary. 
Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

VICTORIAN  (^disguising  his  voice). 

Hist !  Gipsy  ! 

PRECiosA  (aside,  with  emotion). 
That  voice  !    that  voice  from  heaven  !     O  speak 

again  ! 
Who  is  it  calls  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

A  friend. 
PRECIOSA  (aside). 

'T  is  he  !    'T  is  he  ! 

I  thank  thee,  Heaven,  that  thou  hast  heard  my 

prayer. 
And  sent  me  this  protector  !     Now  be  strong, 
Be  strong,  my  heart !    I  must  dissemble  here. 
False  friend  or  true  .'' 

VICTORIAN. 

A  true  friend  to  the  true  ; 
Fear  not ;  come  hither.    So  ;  can  you  tell  fortunes .'' 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  447 

PRECIOSA. 

Not  in  the  dark.     Come  nearer  to  the  fire. 
Give  me  your  hand.     It  is  not  crossed,  I  see. 
VICTORIAN   {putting  a  piece  of  gold  into  her  hand). 
There  is  the  cross. 

PRECIOSA. 

Is  't  silver  .'' 

VICTORIAN. 

No,  't  is  gold. 

PRECIOSA. 

There  's  a  fair  lady  at  the  Court,  who  loves  you, 
And  for  yourself  alone. 

VICTORIAN, 

Fie  !  the  old  story  ! 
Tell  me  a  better  fortune  for  my  money ; 
Not  this  old  woman's  tale  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

You  are  passionate ; 
And  this  same  passionate  humor  in  your  blood 
Has  marred  your  fortune.     Yes  ;  I  see  it  now ; 


448  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

The  line  of  life  is  crossed  by  many  marks. 
Shame  !  shame  !     O  you  have  wronged  the  maid 

who  loved  you  ! 
How  could  you  do  it  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

I  never  loved  a  maid ; 
For  she  I  loved  was  then  a  maid  no  more. 

PRECIOSA. 

How  know  you  that  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

A  little  bird  in  the  air 
Whispered  the  secret. 

PRECIOSA. 

There,  take  back  your  gold  ! 
Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a  deceiver's  hand  ! 
There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity  ! 
Make  her  your  wife,  for  you  have  been  abused ; 
And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes,  mending  hers. 

VICTORIAN  (aside). 
How  hke  an  angel's  speaks  the  tongue  of  woman, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         449 


When  pleading  in  another's  cause  her  own  ! 
That  is  a  pretty  ring  upon  your  finger. 
Pray  give  it  me.      (Tries  to  take  the  ring.) 

PRECIOSA. 


No  ;  never  from  my  hand 
Shall  that  be  taken  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Why,  't  is  but  a  ring. 
I  '11  give  it  back  to  you  ;  or,  if  I  keep  it, 
Will  give  you  gold  to  buy  you  twenty  such. 

PRECIOSA. 

Why  would  you  have  this  ring  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

A  traveller's  fancy, 
A  whim,  and  nothing  more.    I  would  fain  keep  it 
As  a  memento  of  the  Gipsy  camp 
In  Guadarrama,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who  sent  me  back  to  wed  a  widowed  maid. 
Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 

PRECIOSA. 

No,  never  !  never  ! 
29 


450  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

I  will  not  part  with  it,  even  when  I  die  ; 
But  bid  my  nurse  fold  ray  pale  fingers  thus, 
That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.     'T  is  a  token 
Of  a  beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

VICTOKIAN. 

How  ?  dead  ? 

PKECIOSA. 

Yes  ;  dead  to  me  ;  and  worse  than  dead. 
He  is  estranged  !     And  yet  I  keep  this  ring. 
I  will  rise  with  it  from  my  grave  hereafter. 
To  prove  to  him  that  I  was  never  false. 

VICTORIAN    (aside). 
Be  still,  my  swelling  heart !   one  moment,  still ! 
Why,  't  is  the  folly  of  a  love-sick  girl. 
Come,  give  it  me,  or  I  will  say  't  is  mine, 
And  that  you  stole  it. 

PKECIOSA. 

O,  you  will  not  dare 
To  utter  such  a  fiendish  lie  ! 

VICTOKIAN. 

Not  dare  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         451 

Look  in  my  face,  and  say  if  there  is  aught 
I  have  not  dared,  I  would  not  dare  for  thee  ! 
{She  rushes  into  his  arms.) 
PEECIOSA. 

*T  is  thou  !  't  is  thou  !     Yes  ;   yes  ;   my  heart's 

elected  ! 
My  dearest-dear  Victorian  !  my  soul's  heaven  ! 
Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ?    Why  didst  thou 

leave  me  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ask  me  not  now,  my  dearest  Preciosa. 
Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Hadst  thou  not  come 

VICTORIAN. 

I  pray  thee,  do  not  chide  me  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I  should  have  perished  here  among  these  Gipsies. 

VICTORIAN. 

Forgive  me,  sweet !  for  what  I  made  thee  suffer. 


452  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

Think'st  thou  this  heart  could  feel  a  moment's  joy. 
Thou  being  absent  ?     O,  beheve  it  not ! 
Indeed,  since  that  sad  hour  I  have  not  slept. 
For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I  did  to  thee  ! 
Dost  thou  forgive  me  ?    Say,  wilt  thou  forgive  me  ? 

PRECIOSA. 

I  have  forgiven  thee.     Ere  those  words  of  anger 
Were  in  the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down  against 

thee, 
I  had  forgiven  thee. 

VICTORIAN. 

I  'm  the  veriest  fool 
That  walks  the  earth,  to  have  believed  thee  false 
It  was  the  Count  of  Lara 

PRECIOSA. 

That  bad  man 
Has  worked  me  harm  enough.     Hast  thou  not 
heard  

VICTORIAN. 

I  have  heard  all.     And  yet  speak  on,  speak  on  ! 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  453 

Let  me  but  hear  thy  voice,  and  I  am  happy ; 
For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incantation. 
Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 
Speak,  my  beloved,  speak  into  my  heart, 
Whatever  fills  and  agitates  thine  own. 
{They  walk  aside.) 
HYPOLITO. 

All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral  poets, 
All  passionate  love  scenes  in  the  best  romances, 
All  chaste  embraces  on  the  pubhc  stage, 
All  soft  adventures,  which  the  liberal  stars 
Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of  things, 
Have  been  surpassed  here  by  my  friend,  the  stu- 
dent. 
And  this  sweet  Gipsy  lass,  fair  Preciosa  ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Senor  Hypolito  !  I  kiss  your  hand. 
Pray,  shall  I  tell  your  fortune  } 

HYPOLITO. 

Not  to-night ; 


454         THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did  Victorian, 
And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  forlorn, 
My  wedding  day  would  last  from  now  till  Christ- 
mas. 

CHISPA   (ivithin). 
What  ho  !  the  Gipsies,  ho  !     Beltran  Cruzado  ! 
Halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  ! 

{Enters  booted,  loith  a  whip  and  lantern.) 

VICTORIAN. 

What  now } 
Why  such  a  fearful  din  .''    Hast  thou  been  robbed  ? 

CHISPA. 

Ay,  robbed  and  murdered  ;  and  good  evening  to 

you. 
My  worthy  masters. 

VICTORIAN. 

Speak  ;  what  brings  thee  here  } 
CHISPA     (to  Preciosa). 
Good  news  from  Court ;  good  news  !     Behran 
Cruzado, 


r 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  455 

The  Count  of  the  Cales,  is  not  }'Our  father, 
But  your  true  father  has  returned  to  Spain 
Laden  with  wealth.     You  are  no  more  a  Gipsy. 

VICTORIAN. 

Strange  as  a  Moorish  tale  ! 

CHI  SPA. 

And  we  have  all 
Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your  health, 
As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it  rains. 

VICTORIAN. 

Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 

CHISPA. 

As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 
His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

PRECIOSA. 

Is  this  a  dream  ?    O,  if  it  be  a  dream. 
Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me  yet  ! 
Repeat  thy  story !     Say  I  'm  not  deceived  ! 
Say  that  I  do  not  dream  !     I  am  awake  ; 


456  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

This  is  the  Gipsy  camp  ;  this  is  Victorian, 
And  this  his  friend,  Hypolito  !     Speak  !  speak  ! 
Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a  dream  ! 

VICTORIAN. 

It  is  a  dream,  sweet  child  !  a  waking  dream, 

A  bhssful  certainty,  a  vision  bright 

Of  that  rare  happiness,  which  even  on  earth 

Heaven  gives  to  those  it  loves.    Now  art  thou  rich, 

As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good  ; 

And  I  am  now  the  beggar. 

PRECiosA  {giving  him  her  hand) . 
I  have  still 
A  hand  to  give. 

CHISPA  (aside). 
And  I  have  two  to  take. 
I  've  heard   my  grandmother  say,  that  Heaven 

gives  almonds 
To  those  who  have  no  teeth.    That 's  nuts  to  crack. 
I  've  teeth  to  spare,  but  where  shall  I  find  al- 
monds .'' 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  457 

VICTORIAN. 

What  more  of  this  strange  story  ? 

CHISPA. 

Nothing  more. 
Your  friend,  Don  Carlos,  is  now  at  the  village 
Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  Alcalde, 
The  proofs  of  what  I  tell  you.      The  old  hag, 
Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood,  has  confessed ; 
And  probably  they  '11  hang  her  for  the  crime, 
To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 

VICTORIAN. 

No  ;  let  it  be  a  day  of  general  joy ; 

Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes  not  late. 

Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

HYPOLITO. 

So  farewell, 
The  student's  wandering  life  !     Sweet  serenades, 
Sung  under  ladies'  windows  in  the  night, 
And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful ! 
To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcala, 


458  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 
Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by  truth, 
The  Bachelor  Hypohto  returns, 
And  leaves  the  Gipsy  with  the  Spanish  Student. 


SCENE  VI. 

A  pass  in  the  Guadarrama  mountains.  Early  morning. 
A  muleteer  crosses  the  stage,  sitting  sideivays  on  his 
mule,  and  lighting  a  paper  cigar  with  flint  and  steel. 

SONG. 
If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake  and  open  thy  door, 
'T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away, 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers. 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet ; 
We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  grass, 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 


THE    SPANISH   STUDENT.  459 

(Disappears  down  the  pass.     Enter  a  Monk.     A  Shepherd 
appears  on  the  rocks  above.) 

MONK. 

Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.     Ola  !  good  man  ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Ola! 

MONK. 

Is  this  the  road  to  Segovia  .'' 

SHEPHERD. 

It  is,  your  reverence. 

MONK. 

How  far  is  it } 

SHEPHERD. 

I  do  not  know. 

MONK. 

What  is  that  yonder  in  the  valley .'' 

SHEPHERD. 

San  Ildefonso. 

MONK. 

A  long  way  to  breakfast. 


460  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

SHEPHERD. 

Ay,  many. 

MONK. 

Are  there  robbers  in  these  mountains  ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 

MONK. 

What  } 
Wolves. 


SHEPHERD. 


MONK. 

Santa  Maria  !     Come  with  me  to  San  Ildefon- 
so,  and  thou  shalt  be  well  rewarded. 

SHEPHERD. 

What  wilt  thou  give  me  .'' 

MONK. 

An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  benediction. 

(  They  disappear.  A  ^nounted  Contralandista  passes,  wrap- 
ped in  his  cloak,  and  a  gun  at  his  saddle-bow.  He  goes 
down  the  pass  singing.) 


THE   SPANISH   STUDENT.  461 

SONG. 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 
And  I  march  me  hurried,  worried ; 
Onward,  caballito  raio. 
With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead ! 
Onward,  for  here  comes  the  Ronda, 
And  I  hear  their  rifles  crack  ! 
Ay,  jaleo  !     Ay,  ay,  jaleo  ! 
Ay,  jaleo  !     They  cross  our  track. 
(Song  dies  away.    Enter  Preciosa,  on  horseback,  attended 
ly  Victorian,  Hypolito,  Don  Carlos,  and  Chispa, 
on  foot,  and  armed.) 

VICTORIAN. 

This  is  the  highest  point.     Here  let  us  rest. 
See,  Preciosa,  see  how  all  about  us 
Kneeling,  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty  mountains 
Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 
O  glorious  sight ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Most  beautiful  indeed  ! 


462  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT, 

HYPOLITO. 

Most  wonderful ! 

VICTORIAN. 

And  in  the  vale  below, 
Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  halberds, 
San  lldefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries, 
Sends  up  a  salutation  to  the  morn. 
As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields, 
And  shouted  victory ! 

PRECIOSA. 

And  which  way  hes 
Segovia  ? 

VICTORIAN. 

At  a  great  distance  yonder. 
Dost  thou  not  see  it .'' 

PRECIOSA. 

No.     I  do  not  see  it. 

VICTORIAN. 

The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the  horizon's  edge. 
There,  yonder  ! 


THE   SPANISH    STUDENT.  463 

HYPOLITO. 

'T  is  a  notable  old  town, 
Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct, 
And  an  Alcazar,  builded  by  the  Moors, 
Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil  Bias 
Was  fed  on  Pan  del  Rey.     O,  many  a  time 
Out  of  its  grated  windows  have  I  looked 
Hundreds  of  feet  plumb  down  to  the  Eresma, 
That,  like  a  serpent  through  the  valley  creeping, 
Ghdes  at  its  foot. 

PRECIOSA. 

O,  yes  !     I  see  it  now, 
Yet  rather  with  my  heart,  than  with  mine  eyes. 
So  faint  it  is.    And,  all  my  thoughts  sail  thither. 
Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and  forward 

urged 
Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as,  in 
The  Eastern  Tale,  against  the  wind  and  tide, 
Great  ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic  Moun- 
tains, 


464  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

And   tliere  were  wrecked,  and   perished  in  the 
sea  !      {She  loeeps.) 

VICTORIAN. 
O  gentle  spirit !     Thou  didst  bear  unmoved 
Blasts  of  adversity  and  frosts  of  fate  ! 
But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on  thee 
Melts  thee  to  tears  !     O,  let  thy  weary  heart 
Lean  upon  mine  !  and  it  shall  faint  no  more, 
Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger  ;  but  be  comforted 
And  filled  with  my  affection. 

PRECIOSA. 

Stay  no  longer ! 
My  father  waits.      Methinks  I  see  him  there, 
Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now  watching 
Each  sound  of  wheels  or    foot-fall   in  the  street. 
And  saying,   "  Hark  !  she  comes  !  "     O  father  ! 
father  ! 
( They  descend  the  pass.    Chispa  remains  behind.) 

CHISPA. 

I  have  a  father,  too,  but  he  is  a  dead  one. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.         465 

Alas  and  alack-a-day  !  Poor  was  I  born,  and 
poor  do  T  remain.  I  neither  win  nor  lose.  Thus 
I  wag  through  the  world,  half  the  time  on  foot, 
and  the  other  half  walking  ;  and  always  as  merry 
as  a  thunder-storm  in  the  night.  And  so  we 
plough  along,  as  the  fly  said  to  the  ox.  Who 
knows  what  may  happen  ^  Patience,  and  shuffle 
the  cards  !  I  am  not  yet  so  bald,  that  you  can 
see  my  brains  ;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  I  shall 
some  day  go  to  Rome,  and  come  back  Saint 
Peter.     Benedicite !  [Exit. 

{A  paiLse,     Then  enter  Bartolome  ivildly,  as  if  in  pur- 
suit, with  a  carbine  in  his  hand.) 

BARTOLOME. 

They  passed   this   way !      I  hear  their  horses' 

hoofs  ! 
Yonder  I  see  them  !     Come,  sweet  caramillo, 
This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gipsy's  last! 
{Fires  down  the  pass.) 

Ha  !  ha  !     Well  whistled,  my  sweet  caramillo  ! 
30 


460  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

Well  whistled  !  —  I  have  missed  her  !  —  O,  my 
God! 

{The  shot  is  returned.     'QxR^owmi  falls.) 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


Page  10.     As  Lope  says. 

"  La  c61era 
de  un  Espanol  sentado  no  se  templa, 
sino  le  representan  en  dos  horaa 
hasta  el  final  juicio  desde  el  Genesis." 

Lope  de  Vega. 

Page  302.     Abernuncio  Satanas. 

"  Digo,  Seiiora,  respondio  Sancho,  lo  que  tengo  dicho, 
que  de  los  azotes  abernuncio.  Abrenuncio,  habeis  de  de- 
cir,  Sancho,  y  no  como  decis,  dijo  el  Duque." — Don 
Quixote,  Part  II.,  ch.  35. 

Page  332.     Fray  Carrillo. 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a  Spanish  Epigram. 

"  Siempre  Fray  Carrillo  est^s 
cansandonos  aca  fueraj 


470  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

quien  en  tu  celda  estuviera 
para  no  verte  jamas  1 " 

Bold  de  Faber.    Floresta,  No.  Gil. 

Page  333.     Padre  Francisco. 
This  is  from  an  Italian  popular  song. 
"  'Padre  Francesco, 
Padre  Francesco ! ' 
—  Cosa  volele  del  Padre  Francesco  — 
'  V  6  una  bella  ragazzina 
Che  si  vuole  confessar! ' 
Fatte  1'  entrare,  fatte  1'  entrare  I 
Che  la  voglio  confessare." 

Kopisch.    Volksthilmliche  Poesien  aus  alien  Mun- 
darten  Italiens  und  seiner  Inseln,  p.  194. 

* 
Page  336.     Ave  !  cujus  calcem  dare. 

From  a  monkish  hymn  of  the  twelfth  century,  in  Sir 

Alexander  Croke's  Essay  on  the  Origin,  Progress,  and 

Decline  of  Rhyming  Latin  Verse,  p.  109. 

Page  351.     The  gold  of  the  Busni. 
Busne  is  the  name  given  by  the  Gipsies  to  all  who 
are  not  of  their  race. 


NOTES.  471 

Page  354.      Count  of  the  Calts. 

The  Gipsies  call  themselves  Cales.  See  Sorrow's  val- 
uable and  extremely  interesting  work,  The  Zincali ;  or  an 
Account  of  the  Gipsies  in  Spain.     London,  1841. 

Page  362.     AsJis  if  his  money-bags  would  rise. 

"  i,Y  volviendome  a  un  lado,  vi  a  un  Avariento,  que 
estaba  preguntando  a  otro,  (que  por  haber  sido  embalsa- 
mado,  y  estar  lexos  sus  tripas  no  hablaba,  porque  no  ha- 
bian  llegado  si  habian  de  resucitar  aquel  dia  todos  los  en- 
terrados)  si  resucitarian  unos  bolsones  suyos?  "  —  El  Sue- 
no  de  las  Calaveras. 

Page  362.     And  amen!  said  my  Cid  Campeador. 
A  line  from  the  ancient  Poema  del  Cid. 

"  Amen,  dixo  Mio  Cid  el  Campeador." 

Line  3014. 

Page  364.      The  river  of  his  thoughts. 
This  expression  is  from  Dante  ; 

'■  Si  ciie  chiaro 
Per  essa  scenda  della  mente  il  fiunie." 


472  THE   SPANISH   STUDENT. 

Byron  has  likewise  used  the  expression ;  though  I  do 
not  recollect  in  which  of  his  poems. 

Page  366.     Mari  Franca. 

A  common  Spanish  proverb,  used  to  turn  aside  a  ques- 
tion one  does  not  wish  to  answer  ; 

"  Porque  cas6  Mari  Franca 
quatro  leguas  de  Salamanca." 

Page  368.     Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes. 

The  Spaniards,  with  good  reason,  consider  this  color 
of  the  eye  as  beautiful,  and  celebrate  it  in  song ;  as,  for 
example,  in  the  well  known  Villancico; 

"  Ay  ojuelos  verdes, 
ay  los  mis  ojuelos, 
ay  hagan  los  clelos 
que  de  mi  te  acuerdes ! 

■        •        •        • 
Tengo  confianza 
de  mis  verdes  ojos." 
Bshl  de  Faber.    Floresta,  No.  255. 

Dante  speaks  of  Beatrice's  eyes  as  emeralds.  Purga- 
torio,  xxxi.  116.     Lami  says,  in  his  Annotazioni,  "  Era- 


NOTES.  473 


no  i  suoi  occhi  d'  un  turchino  verdiccio,  simile  a  quel  del 


Page  371.      The  Avenging  Child. 
See  the  ancient  Ballads  of  El  Infante  Vengador,  and 
Calaynos. 

Page  372.     All  are  sleeping. 

From  the  Spanish.     BohVs  Floresta,  No.  282. 

Paffe  402.      Good  ni^ht. 

From  the  Spanish  ;  as  are  likewise  the  songs  immedi- 
ately following,  and  that  which  commences  the  first  scene 
of  Act  III. 

Page  435.     The  evil  eye. 

"  In  the  Gitano  language,  casting  the  evil  eye  is  called 
Querelar  nasula,  which  simply  means  making  sick,  and 
which,  according  to  the  common  superstition,  is  accom- 
plished by  casting  an  evil  look  at  people,  especially  child- 
ren, who,  from  the  tenderness  of  their  constitution,  are 
supposed  to  be  more  easily  blighted  than  those  of  a  more 


474  THE   SPANISH    STUDENT. 


mature  age.     After  receiving  the  evil  glance,  they  fall 
sick,  and  die  in  a  few  hours. 

"  The  Spaniards  have  very  little  to  say  respecting  the 
evil  eye,  though  the  belief  in  it  is  very  prevalent,  espe- 
cially in  Andalusia,  amongst  the  lower  orders.  A  stag's 
horn  is  considered  a  good  safeguard,  and  on  that  account 
a  small  horn,  tipped  with  silver,  is  frequently  attached  to 
the  children's  necks  by  means  of  a  cord  braided  from  the 
hair  of  a  black  mare's  tail.  Should  the  evil  glance  be 
cast,  it  is  imagined  that  the  horn  receives  it,  and  instantly 
snaps  asunder.  Such  horns  may  be  purchased  in  some 
of  the  silversmiths'  shops  at  Seville." 

BoRROw's  Zincali.  Vol.  I.  ch.  ix. 

Page  436.      On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand. 

This  and  the  following  scraps  of  song  are  from  Sor- 
row's Zincali;  or  an  Account  of  the  Gipsies  in  Spain. 

The  Gipsy  words  in  the  same  scene  may  be  thus  inter- 
preted : 

John-Dorados,  pieces  of  gold. 

Pigeon,  a  simpleton. 

In  your  morocco,  stripped. 

Doves,  sheets. 


NOTES.'  475 

Moon,  a  shirt. 

Chirelin,  a  thief. 

Murcigalleros,  those  who  steal  at  night-fall. 

Rastilleros,  foot-pads. 

Hermit,  highway-robber. 

Planets,  candles. 

Commandments,  the  fingers. 

Saint  Martin  asleep,  to  rob  a  person  asleep. 

Lanterns,  eyes. 

Goblin,  police  officer. 

Papagayo,  a  spy. 

Vineyards  and  Dancing  John,  to  take  flight. 

Page  458.     If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden. 
From  the  Spanish  ;  as  is  likewise  the  song  of  the  Con- 
trabandista  on  page  169. 


E^D    OF    VOL.  I. 


L 


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